Blue Moon
by dljensengirl88
Summary: There's a hunt afoot and Dean's head isn't quite in the game. He's got Sam on the brain. John just wants him to do his job. WARNING: While not heavy with it, this IS a discipline/CP fic. Also, this really should have an MA rating due to one particular chapter. Otherwise, it's mostly T.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the show or the boys, but I do own my thoughts about them.

****Author's Note: ****This will end up being 12 chapters, but only technically. I consider it to be 6 because I wrote this alternating between John's and Dean's POV. So chapter 1 for John will be chapter 1.5 for Dean, covering the same time period. Make sense? I hope so! I am not finished yet, but have no fear, I am well on my way and you will NOT be left hanging. This was written for those who have a discipline kink, but hopefully you'll all enjoy it for much more than that. I am posting every weekday until it is done. (No weekends. Gotta take a break some time!) Hope you enjoy reading it as much I am enjoying writing it!****  
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**John's POV - Chapter 1**

_What the hell is wrong with that boy_, John wondered. He and Dean had been in their newest digs for all of one weekend and already the place was a disaster. Weapons or shells covered every possible surface. Clothes littered the hallway leading to the back rooms. Food was left wherever it was last opened or eaten. Seriously. What the hell?

John had done most of the driving to get them from Montana - where they fought yet another Wendigo that should have been hibernating this time of year - to Reno, Nevada. They caught wind of some strange happenings there and since it was in the direction of California, John thought this might be a great excuse to check up on his younger son – without his knowledge, of course.

John was tired, he was cranky, but he didn't want to worry about money. So he took Dean to the house he arranged for them to stay in, unloaded everything and told Dean he'd be back in 3 days because he needed to see another hunter in New Mexico who owed him a lot of money and for some reason thought John would never come to collect. They could use that cash, though, and who knows what part of the country they'd end up in next. Now was as good a time as any.

John instructed Dean to make sure all the weapons were good to go, shells loaded and if he could start looking for any news articles on the mysterious and colorful deaths happening in Reno, that would be a bonus. He knew he was leaving Dean with a lot of work, but Dean wouldn't have the car and needed something to keep his hands busy while John was gone – not that Dean couldn't find ways to keep his hands busy.

Dean was a good kid. Well, ok. At 24, maybe he wasn't such a kid anymore. And, ok, sometimes he stretched the definition of "good." Dean had his moments, but John knew that Dean took the job seriously. He worked hard and he played harder, and John couldn't fault him for that. He was _his_ son, after all; his closest reminder of Mary. But ever since they had left Montana and John told him they were headed for Reno, his boy had become a little quieter than usual, surly even. For instance, father and son enjoyed the same music, but their choice of decibel level seemed to differ greatly. Usually John was fighting to save his eardrums. This time it was as if Dean didn't even notice the music was off for the entire state of South Dakota. Even when they stopped at Bobby's for a brief respite and Bobby surprised him with one of his favorites – pecan pie – Dean was less enthusiastic about second helpings than usual.

John quietly watched his offspring as they made their way to Reno. He hoped that Dean having the house to himself for a few days would help quell whatever mood he was in. He was practically granting permission for the sullen boy to blow off a little steam by telling him almost to the minute when he would return. He even called ahead to let Dean know he was on schedule, although the boy hadn't picked up for some reason so he left him a voicemail message. John didn't need a moody hunting partner so he would forget that Dean didn't pick up. He had hoped Dean's time alone was good for him; that it had done the trick.

It hadn't.

When John saw the condition of the house, it was all he could do to not rip through the place to find Dean so he could tear him a new one. But no – John had had a successful trip collecting the money he had been owed, he was making plans to head over to Stanford after the research was done for this hunt they were on and he was not going to let Dean screw up his mood.

Instead of yelling for Dean, John began to pick his way through the clutter to locate his son. The house was all on one level so that should make things easy. Stepping over strewn shoes and a jacket, he noticed the mess to his left, on the sofa and coffee table. The laptop was open, screen black. He didn't see a cord, so he wondered if it was even charged anymore. He noticed a notebook next to the computer and it looked like there were words scribbled under that pen. _That's something_, he hoped. He then realized the sofa was in front of the unprotected window and that wouldn't do. He'd have to get Dean to help him push it against the wall. Why hadn't Dean thought of that himself?

He looked to the right where his stuff was still on the floor. You'd think Dean would have moved it by now. The bookshelf at least still looked intact. The upholstered chair, also in front of a window – clearly this wasn't the home of a hunter – was mysteriously holding the laptop cord. John sighed and kept walking back toward the kitchen that was located almost at the center of it all. He grimaced at the mess he passed, continuing to walk even further to the bedrooms. There were three and Dean had taken the first one you came to on the left, which was diagonal from the larger room John had chosen, surprised Dean didn't try to claim it first.

John saw the door to Dean's room was closed and thought he'd sneak up on the boy doing something stupid he'd need to be reprimanded for. But a peek through the carefully opened door revealed nothing but more disheveled laundry. For folk who traveled light, John couldn't figure out how the hell Dean could have so much crap strewn everywhere. John pushed the door further open to make sure his son wasn't the victim of some random circumstance while he was gone. But Dean was not in sight.

"Where the hell are you, boy," John huffed, resigning himself to having to clean up at least some of the mess just so he could function and think straight. He figured he'd start with the kitchen since he was hungry, but he'd leave the mess of casings on the table and floor for Dean to deal with. John considered for a moment the unmoved furniture and overall upheaval of the place, and he wondered if Dean was ok. But he saw no signs of evil play, plus he had talked to Dean a couple of times while he was away and all he got was the sense his son was going through something. He wasn't sure what and he wasn't sure he could get Dean to tell him. For now he would clean.

John had gotten the dishes soaking in the sink, cleared off the counters and started seasoning a couple of steaks he was going to broil in the oven when he heard the squeak of the screen door, then the front door open and close with a solid thud. John wasn't going to step out. He'd wait for Dean to find him. In the meanwhile, John could decide which DEFCON level his temper was currently set at so that he could act accordingly.

He heard the quiet click of boots not exactly hurrying his way and not exactly rhythmic. Dean stepped into the kitchen, looking like he couldn't quite decide how to feel.

"H...hey, dad," he slurred just a little, running a hand through his hair. John shook his head as he watched him enter. He had already gone from a DEFCON red to a yellow when his son wasn't there to bear the brunt of his anger and time had forced him to calm a little. Now he was going from a yellow to a green once he realized Dean was a little too impaired for an effective chastisement, but he wouldn't be too far gone to understand the Winchester Glare. John turned fully around to stare at his son, saying nothing but not looking away either for what felt like a full minute. Dean struggled under the glare, looking at the floor for a moment, then back up to face his dad. He gave him a weak smile and an even weaker excuse.

"You're home, huh? Time mus'sa got…gotten away from me. 'M sorry I, uh, I wa'nt here," Dean stammered while trying not to noticeably fidget next to the wall that was helping him stay on two feet.

"Where the hell you been, boy? This place is a wreck. What happened here?"

"Oh, uh," Dean hesitated, scratching his head as he looked around. "I just…I just needed a lil' break, but this…," he gestured around the kitchen. "…ain't too bad. I think."

"Because I cleaned most of it, Dean," John answered sarcastically. "I left that mess there for you. You'll take care of that," he declared, pointing to the shells.

"Ye…yes, sir. Right away."

Dean grabbed the back of the closest chair and used it as a crutch as he shuffled to the seat and slumped down. John watched him a brief moment then turned back to the steaks that were almost ready to go in the oven. He listened to the clicking of the shells against the table and a brushing sound, assuming Dean was trying to wipe up whatever salt he had spilled.

John found the broiler for the steaks and got them into the oven, closing it with a slight bang that startled Dean. "Bit jumpy there, Dean?" John snorted, watching his son get nowhere fast with the mess before him. He shook his head again as Dean looked up with those 4-year-old eyes that sometimes appeared to haunt John whenever Dean was in some trouble.

"Huh? Oh, no. No, Dad. Jus', uh, cleaning. I'll get it." Dean swiped at the salt, some of it falling to the floor, then he tried to stand once he realized he had no place to put it. He looked around the kitchen looking like an unsure puppy. It was too pathetic even for John.

"Dean," John sighed.

"Huh," Dean replied, still searching for the unknown item.

"Dean!" John snapped this time, causing Dean to focus on him and stand a little straighter even though the liquor was still working on him.

"Huh! I mean, yes, sir! Sorry, sorry Dad, I was just…"

"Dean, put that mess down and get to bed. You're shitfaced and won't do any good except to royally piss me off. Go on, boy, get out of here and we'll deal with this is in the morning."

Dean looked as if he couldn't decide what to do, but John's glare seemed to help him to make a move. "OK, yeah, Dad. Bed. See ya inna mornin'," he said, holding on to the back of the chair until he could safely navigate to the wall that would hold him up until he got to his room.

Looks like John could put that second steak aside for a steak-and-eggs breakfast for himself in the morning or later for tomorrow's dinner because all Dean would be having next was his Winchester Hangover Cure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes/Warning: **Remember my weird chapter numbering - I'm using halves to help you keep in mind which two go together, but there will actually be 12 postings in all. Dean's POV here is almost twice as long as John's, but he has a lot going on that John isn't aware of, so I guess it makes sense, huh? The time frame is the same as John's from Chapter 1.

**Dean's POV - Chapter 1.5**

Dean was stir crazy. He and his dad had holed up in this dark house after leaving the comforts of Bobby's place a few days ago. John, as usual, had left him alone to do a ton of work with no help. He had said something about getting money someone owed him so they'd be ok for a while. For all Dean knew that could be code for "Dad was on a gambling trip and he wouldn't be home for a few days." They were in Reno after all.

Of course Dean knew he wasn't being entirely fair. He couldn't be sure his dad wasn't telling the truth – not until he actually saw the money Dad said he was owed – but ever since Sammy had left and then since Sammy had suddenly gone incommunicado, Dean was looking to place blame. It didn't occur to him to blame Sammy. Sammy was just a kid. Dad had kicked him out while Dean stood quietly by trying not to break on the outside the way his heart was crumbling on the inside.

So Dean said nothing. After he and Dad took care of the stubborn Wendigo that had insomnia, he tried to call Sammy, but it went to voicemail. He tried again when he and Dad were on their way to Bobby's and had stopped at a diner for breakfast. While his dad was in the restroom, Dean had called Sam to apologize for whatever he had done to piss Sam off so that he wouldn't answer his calls. When they were at Bobby's, Dean was trying to be in a jovial mood because Bobby had gone out of his way to get him a pecan pie. Bobby had tried to pass it off as homemade, but Dean had stayed with the man he called "uncle" and eaten out with him often enough to recognize the famous pecan pie of Shirley's Bakery. By the time they got to the house where they were staying, Dean was tired, he was cranky and he didn't want to do anything but sleep for a whole day – if he could get away with it.

Instead, he and Dad unloaded the Impala immediately upon their arrival. Dad ordered Dean to make sure all the weapons were good to go, shells loaded and, in what Dean heard as a sarcastic tone, if Dean could start looking for any news articles on the mysterious and colorful deaths happening in Reno instead of lazing about, that would be the cherry on the sundae. Dean had given his obligatory reply, grumbling internally about his dad's relentless obsession to order him around, not that Dean didn't understand. He did and he took the job seriously. But sometimes all work and no play….

He didn't mind being the good soldier if it meant he got to kill as many evil sons of bitches as possible. Dean did his best to be obedient even when he was warring inside, like he was now. He needed space, so Dean didn't argue when his dad said he was leaving and he'd be back in three days.

When Dad took off, Dean looked around the quiet, empty house full of nothing but his thoughts about what Sam must have been doing, what Sam must have been thinking to ignore Dean for what? A whole month now? Two years they stay in touch and suddenly he becomes a junior – an upper-classman, Dean guessed – and he can't be bothered anymore?

Dean took the weapons bag to the living room table to start unpacking it. He wanted to see what needed to be stripped and cleaned, and what might be in good enough condition. Of course he knew good enough wouldn't be good enough for his dad, and normally not for him either, but he wasn't feeling normal right now. Still, did Dean want to chance his dad being pissed because he did a half-assed job? Dean slammed the weapons on the table as he brewed about it, and once he hit the box of shells, he decided to take those to the kitchen, find the salt and start there. He'd decide about the weapons later.

Once he was in the kitchen, though, he realized he was hungry. His sullen mood had served to put a damper on his appetite for a few days, but even Sammy agita couldn't kill it for good. He and Dad had done some grocery shopping before they went to the house, so at least he didn't _have_ to go anywhere for a little while, which was just fine by him.

He didn't want to do anything too complicated or that would take too long, so a grilled BLT with cheese would be just the quick meal he needed while he was dealing with the weapons and sorting out other stuff.

The hot sandwich took less time to cook than it did to get the food put away and prep what he needed. As he ate, Dean shuffled between the rooms, making sure he had everything he needed from the weapons bag and returning to the shells in the kitchen so he could fill them with the salt that was stored there. He was making a bit of a mess, but his dad was away for two more days, so he could care about cleaning up at a later time. He filled as many as he could in one sitting before he needed to get up for more salt. It was getting late though. His dad had uncharacteristically called to tell him he was not quite halfway to his destination, so he'd be none the wiser if Dean chilled out for the rest of the night and picked things up in the morning.

Dean woke up with a headache. He had spent some time last night getting into his dad's favorite whiskey and his alcohol-induced state had inspired him to look for a picture he had of Sammy and him back when Dad had first allowed Dean to start driving the Impala – but only when Dad didn't need it. He was almost a car owner and he had been proud, Sammy proud right along with him.

Dean couldn't think straight enough last night to remember where the picture was so he had ransacked the living room where a lot of his dad's things still sat. He had taken his stuff to the small room he claimed earlier on, and – failing to find the photo in the living room – he went back there to rummage through everything he had until he finally remembered it was in his wallet all along, safe and sound.

The rest of the night had been spent with Dean trying to decide whether or not to contact Sam. He started texts, then deleted them. He pressed Sam's number on the speed dial then closed his phone. He got angry at himself for being such a stupid girl about all this in the first place, but this was the longest he and Sam had been out of touch. Longer even than when Sam had run away to Flagstaff for two weeks and Dean had torn apart the world looking for him. This was worse because he was pretty sure Sam knew Dean was trying to reach him and chose to stay silent.

So Dean got up late that morning, holding his head, trying to figure out what had happened and what he needed to do. Research, that's right. His dad had told him to start looking into the weird deaths of some people who had been found in the homes of other people. They had had some kind of paint on their faces or something? Dean fully intended to comply with the order, he just needed a minute to clear his head.

He stumbled into the kitchen and it was a wreck. When did he do this? He stopped to look around, momentarily confused that maybe someone had broken in and created this disaster. But he saw the fixings for the BLT he had eaten, the rounds on the table and oh, some on the floor now. How had he used more than a single plate and pan last night?

Shaking his head, Dean set out for a glass because he needed water and to find the laptop. Maybe he'd even go one step further and take a run like his dad would surely have ordered if he saw the state of this kitchen….wait. The state of the whole house it seemed.

"Shit," he muttered to himself. He padded into the living room and saw the stuff strewn about in there too. He pushed aside the med bag he and Dad carried along so he could sit on the sofa and dig out the laptop. He blinked himself further awake, waiting for it to boot up. "People found dead in other people's homes," he muttered to himself. "Did these people know these…other people?" Dean clicked to enter the screen password, which Sam had created mixing some weird combination of letters and numbers that only Sam understood. Damn. Sam.

His head fell back on the sofa as he looked up at the ceiling trying to get his head back on straight. He blinked again at the light streaming in behind his head, then turned, noticing the window before turning back to notice the room. The sofa was in front of the window. "Damn. Gotta move this," he noted. "Be nice if I had help," Dean started then stopped himself.

"He isn't doing this," he reprimanded himself. "Sam isn't sitting around wishing he had help moving furniture, wondering what the fuck I'm doing and neither am I." He shook his head again looking back at the computer that had finally settled down and he started to search for the deaths that had brought him and Dad to Reno. He found some focus as he searched sites average people never knew existed, but Dad, Bobby and even Sam had figured out all sorts of backdoor search methods over the years and thank God Dean learned them too instead of assuming Geek Boy would always be here to handle the research drudgery.

Dean looked around. He needed paper and he remembered the notebook they kept in the bag with the laptop. He peered over the arm of the sofa to find the bag, stretching until he could put his fingers on it and pull it over to the other side of him, pushing the med bag even further down the sofa. The laptop cord was in there. He had plenty of battery for now so he set the cord aside. The notebook was there as well as a pen somewhere.

Dean set to work writing names, addresses, dates, whatever he could find; six cases in all so far. Maybe there were others? He searched for a full hour before his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten yet.

He looked up at the kitchen, then back at the laptop, not wanting to stop his flow. He was in the zone. Dad would be proud. And Sammy.

He drummed his fingers on the laptop, considering the quickest thing to do. "Eat out," he decided out loud. And since Dad had taken the car,"I could use a run."

Dad had called while Dean was on his way back from the diner that thankfully wasn't more than a couple of miles up the road. Whoever owned this little hideaway had made sure it wasn't too hidden away. Dad was checking in, he had said. Since when? Dad was acting a little strange, but who was he to judge? Dean knew he wasn't exactly Mr. Rogers right now either and he was glad he had another day on his own. He had gotten the research started. He had packed a ton of salt rounds. He needed to start cleaning weapons, but first, he needed a shower.

He checked the time on his phone again as he drew closer to the house. He had gotten up so late and spent so much time on the computer that his breakfast run was actually a lunch run and it was getting on in the day. He dug his hand in his pocket for the house key and pulled out a scrap of paper. _Ohhhh yeah_, he smiled to himself. He had a phone number. That diner – Quick Time Diner – had had some friendly people in it. Flirty waitresses who looked like Michelle Pfeiffer and gave him extra servings of apple pie with whipped cream, heavy on the innuendo. He had something to take his mind off Sammy for a while – well, other than the hunt – and he still had a night and a day before his dad would be back.

"Be-lin-da," he chanted to himself, his thumb stroking the paper as he considered his options. Putting the paper between his teeth, he dug out the house key and let himself inside, tossing the key on the coffee table. He plopped down on the still unmoved sofa to punch in her number. Landing on the laptop cord, he muttered his disgust, grabbed the cord and tossed it across the room. Belinda was off before the dinner rush. He had asked her what there was to do in town and she'd laughed. "You're in Reno, sugar," she reminded him. "Oh yeah," he replied, "and when in Reno…." He winked, she laughed, he made a new friend and just like that, he was off duty. Not even sidetracked by his dad's call to see what he had found so far.

That night and that next morning, it was all Belinda, all the time. He had some money so there was gambling and drinking and yes, even work as Dean carelessly mentioned the deaths he heard about and Belinda said she had heard about them too. Even knew one of the homeowners whose home had been the site of a murder. It was such an invasion because they had gone away and hired a housesitting service to watch their home. They figured a licensed company that checked out with the Better Business Bureau would be safer than anyone else. They could always sue if something happened and insurance would cover them too.

Remembering the hunt for a moment, Dean took note of what she said and promised himself to check into this service to see if they all had that in common. But first, he had watched Belinda talking about the crimes. They were in a casino, at her favorite slots game and he sat next to her watching her play, smelling her perfume, listening intently. He heard her but eventually got lost watching her pouty mouth moving, wondering what it would be like to taste those pink lips. Eventually she forgot what she was talking about, distracted by green eyes, muscles, tight thighs that seemed to get closer and open further for her to fit into. What were they talking about?

Dean came home a little later than planned. The next day later. Much later.

"Shit," he hissed. Dad's car was in the gravel drive next to the house. He stood there a moment contemplating the best course of action. He could pretend like he was a teenager and try sneaking into his room on the side of the house, like he had been there all along. But he hadn't taken the time to even check that out first. "Shit, shit, shit," he grumbled. Dad would have expected him to know all the access points by now. Somehow he'd get reamed for not knowing that.

He looked around himself, feeling exposed in the late afternoon, the alcohol he and Belinda had shared even earlier this afternoon, still kicking his ass. He'd get a better handle on all that as he got older, but for now his body was still going through the motions of someone who had had a lot too much to drink for the past 24 hours.

For all Dad knew, Dean was out investigating. "Yeah," he told himself. "Looking into the case. Talking to people. Belinda is people. Good people. Mmmm, Belinda. Focus, Dean!" He wiped his hand down his face, taking a whiff of his breath in his hand, shrugging when he didn't think it was too bad. He looked at the time on his phone. "Damn it!" He had missed a call from Dad. Too late now. He headed into the house, past the squeaky screen door, closing the main door behind him with a heavy thud.

He picked through the clutter on his way to the kitchen when he didn't see evidence of John in the living room. He wasn't exactly in a rush to have his ass handed to him, so he walked carefully toward the center room, looking around him as he went realizing that all the time in the world to clean up had rapidly turned into time's up.

His dad was already looking his way when he made it to the kitchen entrance and Dean sucked in a breath, feeling slightly ambushed. He couldn't decide if his dad looked pissed, super pissed or ready-to-lunge-across-the-room-at-him pissed, so he greeted Dad and hung back, waiting. Dad would only glare at him, that Winchester Glare that told him to be prepared because anything could happen.

He thought he'd diffuse the situation by playing a little dumb about the time, his words slurring a little more than he had hoped they would, his hand finding a grip on the wall that not only held him up but held him in place when he felt like running. Running was never a good idea when his dad was mad.

He had tried to make good by starting to clean up the salt rounds, but he wasn't doing a very good job since his senses were slightly dulled and his grief for Sammy a little more on the surface than he'd like. But Dad had granted him a reprieve and sent him to bed.

"Go on, boy, get out of here and we'll deal with this is in the morning."

And he was grateful. He knew Dad wasn't done with him, but he was grateful to crawl back to his room, the scent of Belinda still on his clothes and thoughts of Sammy cluttering his brain. He shut the door carefully and fell into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the show or the boys, but I do own my thoughts about them.**  
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**Author's Notes/Warning:** So sorry it took so long to post. Should have done this 8 hours ago, but it was one of those crazy busy days at work then more as soon as I came home. We're back to John now, moving on in the story.

**John's POV - Chapter 2**

John woke up first. He listened for sounds of his lumbering son, but there was only silence. He remembered that Dean had staggered in somewhat late in the day yesterday afternoon. John blew a hard breath, thinking he needed to see if he had the makings of his Winchester Hangover Cure. He was back now; ready to work and he needed Dean alert.

John headed to the kitchen, stopping to put a hand on Dean's door as if that would somehow tell him the temperature of his son's mood. He decided against opening the door in case he didn't like what he would see. He also wanted to give Dean adequate time to revive on his own. He'd need his strength for later. John would see to that.

A couple of ingredients for the cure were around, like tomato juice and lime, which were great with some drinks he liked to mix. But the sugar and cayenne pepper weren't exactly staples in their temporary homes, so John would have to go out. He debated the wisdom of that seeing as how Dean didn't fare well the first time on his own. He'd have to trust the boy could be alone – and asleep – for the time it took him to run to the store and back.

When John returned, the house was just as he left it. "Yeah, time's up," he said aloud, heading to the kitchen to rest his grocery bag on the table. He had gotten the missing ingredients and, though he didn't deserve it, Dean's precious pie. He headed to the room to rouse his son. The door was still shut, but this time John opened it and strode in like it was his own. The musk of the room hit him in the face.

"Damn, boy. Open a window," he said to the unconscious kid. Stepping in, he went to the window to open it and found it unlocked. "Damn it, Dean. Don't make it so easy."

He pushed the window up, and turned to his son, whose lithe form was on top of the covers, stripped down to his boxers as he lay on his stomach, one arm under his head, sleeping the sleep of the innocent. John was tempted to pull off his belt and strap him right then and there as a wake-up call as Dean's offenses began to pile up. But he chose to slap him once on the ass instead.

"Rise and shine, kiddo," he said, leaning over clothes that were blocking the side of the bed. "Wake up, Dean!"

Dean's hand immediately went under his pillow and flew back out armed with a blade. He flipped over to see what had awakened him, squinting in the morning light. "Dad?" He shaded his eyes with his arm. "What…What's going on?" he yawned.

"Get. Up. We have work to do, but you need to get your head on straight first."

Dean rose slowly as John stepped back to lean against the doorjamb and wait. He pushed his legs to the floor. John took a slow breath in and a loud one out. Leaning on his legs, head briefly in hands, Dean turned his head to look at his dad. John saw no fight in him and backed down for the moment. "Get it together. I'll have something in the kitchen waiting for you." Dean quietly nodded and John reluctantly accepted the non-reply.

Returning to the kitchen, John dug into the shopping bag for the ingredients he bought to complete his hangover cure. It took no time to mix everything together into the eye-opening, sinus-clearing concoction that would help his wayward son get back on track and get his head back in the game. As he poured it into a glass, Dean stepped into the room, arms wrapped around himself, barefoot, jeanclad, but shirtless.

"You need a sick day, playboy?"

"No, sir. I'll be alright." Dean nodded toward the glass in John's hand. "That for me?"

"Yup. Good for what ails ya." John smirked and held out the glass.

Dean stepped over, eyes darting from his dad to the glass and back as if he wasn't sure it was safe to take it.

John chuckled. "Don't worry. I didn't poison it."

" 'S not what I'm worried about," Dean mumbled, eyeing the contents of the glass before cautiously bringing it to his lips. This wasn't his first Winchester Hangover Cure. He just never relished the taste.

"Yeah? What are you worried about then?" John leaned back in curiosity, crossing his arms and legs.

Dean grimaced as he tasted the bitter yet sour drink. "I know you're mad."

John remained silent.

"You're mad, right?"

"About what exactly?"

Dean snorted. "About what? About all this," he exclaimed, waving his hand about the room, sloshing the drink as he went. "The mess in the kitchen, which, uh, you cleaned — Thank you, by the way." He flashed a shy smile and went on. "The mess in the living room — that sofa really shouldn't be in front of that window — weapons everywhere. You told me to clean them, Dad, and I was doing it. I really was, I just…"

"You just what?"

Dean looked back at John, wide-eyed like he might crack. Like he just might tell him what was on his mind, and John watched him expectantly. But Dean pulled in his flailing arms instead, leaning on the wall while taking another sip.

"You told me to start the research," he quietly continued into the drink. "And I did, Dad. Did you see?" He looked up hopefully.

"I noticed _something_. I haven't had a chance to look at it yet. Got a little busy cleaning up your mess, taking care of you," he said, pointing a finger of accusation, as he stood tall again.

Dean visibly shrank back at the gesture and wrapped an arm around himself again, stirring the drink in the glass with a gentle shake. "I know. I'm sorry," Dean admitted. John closed his eyes and bowed his head, considering his next move. They needed to get a move on. This needed to be done.

"Look," he decided, rubbing the back of his neck. "Finish that drink. Get dressed. Clean this mess. I'll move the weapons to the back room. We've got space. No need to leave all of this sitting out. When we're done, we'll go grab something to eat and you can tell me what you've found so far. Fair?"

"More than fair, Dad," Dean nodded in acknowledgement, moving off the wall to square off with John. "I'll be quick." He downed the rest of the drink, putting the glass in John's outstretched hand. He smiled that 4-year-old shy smile of appreciation. "Thanks, Dad."

Turning to leave, he noticed the bag on the table, which was now pressed down around the sole item left in the bag – the pie. "That for me too?"

John rolled his eyes at Dean's unnecessary question.

Dean gave him a much more confident smile. "Thanks, Dad."

"Umm hmm. Get moving."

They made quick work of the cleanup and were headed out in no time.

"Did you bring the notes?" John asked as he rounded the car.

"Yes, sir. Got 'em right here. I actually found out quite a bit while I was, um…."

"Out?"

"Yeah, uh, out."

"Umm hmm. You can tell me all about it over something greasy and fattening."

"Ugh, Dad, please," Dean groaned, holding his stomach as he climbed into the car.

"Too soon?"

"Just a little. But don't worry. I'll be in prime eating shape by the time we get to…where _are_ we going, Dad?"

"Oh, coming back, I saw there's a diner not too far from here? Quick Time, I think it's called?"

Dean blushed and sank into his seat, but John was too busy backing out of the drive to notice.

Stepping into the diner, Dean nervously glanced around, taking in all the occupants.

"Just sit anywhere, " the waitress behind the counter said as she looked up. A knowing smile crossed her face. "You know the drill," she grinned, nodding at the men.

"Uh, yeah," Dean said. "Like most diners. Sit where you want. Come on, Dad." Dean tugged at John's sleeve and moved briskly to the section as far back as they could go. John watched him quizzically, but followed.

"Can't be too careful," Dean said with a dismissive shrug.

"Yeah," John said slowly. "You're right."

"So," Dean continued. "You wanna hear what I learned?"

"Yeah, yeah, son. I do," John replied, wondering about his son's sudden agitation. "Let's just, uh, take a second to order, shall we?"

"Oh sure," Dean nodded, snatching the closest menu and burying his head. "Mmm," he peeped over the menu at his father. "Looks good!" Dean quickly returned to the menu and John shook his head, taking the other that was in the holder.

Opening the menu, John began to study it. It was the usual fare for these types of establishments. John didn't really need to figure anything out, but he glossed over the words to avoid uncomfortable eye contact as he spoke. "So, how ya doing, son?"

Dean looked up quickly and back down again; studying his own menu just as intently.

"What do you mean? I'm fine."

John nodded and looked over to see if the waitress was coming. "Are you?" He raised a finger in the waitress' direction, keeping his eye on her instead o Dean. She smiled, raising a coffee pot in acknowledgement.

"Am I what?" Dean asked.

"Fine? Are you fine?" John asked, looking back to his son.

Dean lowered the menu, giving his dad his full-watt smile. "As wine, Dad."

"Umm hmm." John wondered why his sons continued to treat him like he didn't know them; like he couldn't understand. Possibly because John did not always take the time to convey just how much he paid attention to their actions and their lives. But clearly Dean didn't want to talk right now so John did not pursue it.

"Well, I was thinking, after we get the research done for this hunt, maybe we'll head on over to Stanford, huh? Just to check, you know?" John would never admit his own fear for Sam, but he didn't mind Dean knowing, under the guise of being cautious. "Can't be too sure nothing's set its sites on Sammy."

The waitress arrived before Dean could reply. Sidling up to the table, she flashed another smile of familiarity.

"How y'all doing this morning?" she asked, looking at Dean with a wink.

"We're fine," John replied, moving his coffee cup closer to her waiting hand.

"Yeah?" she smirked, glancing back at Dean.

"Uh, yeah," Dean blushed, ducking back into his menu. "Can I just get some scrambled eggs with toast?"

"You sure?" the waitress replied, pen poised to write more. "That's all?'

"Yeah," Dean answered, scratching his head. "I'm…I'm good." He smiled a polite smile then turned to look out the window as he scratched his ear.

John noticed the exchange and looked from Dean to the waitress. He knew Dean's type. This wasn't it, though he never shied away from any female attention. So what was the deal?

"What'll it be for _you_, sweetheart?"

"Eggs, sunny side up. Hash, sausage and keep the caffeine coming please."

"You got it, hon." The waitress gave Dean one more smirk before she left the table. Dean cleared his throat and threw her another polite smile before looking back at his hands on the tabletop.

John rubbed his stubbly chin. "Something you wanna tell me, son?"

"No, no Dad. Nothing." Dean began to fidget with the silverware.

"Uh huh. About the hunt maybe?"

Dean smacked the table with the utensils as he brightened. "Yes," he said quickly. "The hunt. Good. Good call." He pulled out the notebook. John sat back, smiling at his mysterious son.

"So there are six deaths that I know of so far. They all died in homes they did not live in. Apparently one of the people was a house sitter."

"That right?" John leaned forward in interest.

"Yeah. The couple wanted to go away, but they needed someone to watch the place because they were going to be gone for a while. They figured a service would be safe, you know? Licensed and insured and all that? The victim was from the service."

"And how did you find that out?" John asked, sipping his coffee.

Dean blushed again, smoothing his notes. "Um, I talked to one of the, uh, residents? And they knew one of the couples."

John raised an eyebrow. "That's fortuitous."

"Yeah," Dean chuckled anxiously. "She said they are friends of hers and they told her they found the victim with some kind of weird makeup on her face. She said it reminded them of clown makeup."

John sat back at the odd revelation. "That right?"

"That's what she said. So, I figured we check to see if all the victims were house sitters. Since these weren't their homes, it stands to reason, right?"

John nodded.

"We'll see if they are," Dean continued, "and if so, we'll find out which companies. Maybe it's the same one."

"Yeah, son. That's good." John sipped his coffee again while Dean sat back with a pleased look on his face. John smiled. Dean may be 24, but he still needed his dad's approval. "That's good work, son. Considering…"

"Considering?"

"Well, when exactly did you do all this investigating? You stumbled in this morning from I presume the night before? You'd only been here the one day before that. So when'd you have time to find all this out?"

Dean snorted incredulously. "Dad, come on. You can find out so much online. And yeah, I went out, but I _am_ a people person, you know. They just _want_ to talk to me!"

"_She_ does."

Dean furrowed his brows. "She who?"

"You said one of the residents – she? – was friends with the couple who had this happen in their home?"

"Oh! Yeah, yeah, Dad." Dean looked away. "Um, waitress! Can I get a Coke over here?" Dean laughed another nervous laugh. "Ugh, my stomach," he feigned. John gave his third quizzical look of the day.

"Um, so yeah. Residents are females too." Dean scratched his head again trying to end his dad's queries.

"And a straw too please," he called back to the waitress.

"Uh huh." John was pretty sure there was more to the story.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes/Warning:** You may be happy to know that after this chapter John and Dean separate for a bit, so the scenarios won't be the same like they were for these first two. That won't last, of course. But for now, I hope you enjoy.

**Dean's POV - Chapter 2.5**

Dean awoke with a jerk. The sharp sting to his ass had him instinctively reaching under his pillow to retrieve the blade he kept there for whatever or whoever lurking in the dark had the nerve to come his way. And why the hell were they smacking his butt?! He quickly flipped over, his eyes taking a moment to focus on the form leaning over him. All the sunlight around the figure gave it an ethereal glow and for a moment he remembered his mom. _"Angels are watching over you."_

"Dad?" he guessed nonetheless, covering his eyes to see better. It was him. "What…What's going on?"

"Get. Up. We have work to do, but you need to get your head on straight first."

Dean contemplated this. He knew getting up meant it was a new day and John would surely be coming after him for slacking off while he was gone. But he hadn't really been slacking off. Not entirely.

It was the morning after night two of his alcoholic getaway and he once again held his head in his hands, pondering his slacking-off argument to the beat of a dull headache. It was so loud in his head. He looked over at John to see if he noticed how loud it was and to get a read on him while he was at it. John stood in the doorway, practically huffing at him, but he didn't seem poised to snatch Dean from where he sat. He looked more like he couldn't decide what to do.

"Get it together. I'll have something in the kitchen waiting for you."

Dean exhaled a small breath. Another momentary reprieve. He was sure this wouldn't last long, but he'd take it.

As John closed the door behind him, Dean laid back on the bed, knees bent, arm over his eyes. Belinda had been a hell of a good time, but all they did was drink, talk and make out. The talk was informative, sure. But she had been too blitzed to do much else without Dean feeling a little like he was taking advantage of her in the wrong way. So he didn't and he had the blue balls to prove it. He could have left the night before and at least been home before Dad got there. But Belinda's place was too far from his house to walk in that condition. Plus she clearly wanted him to stay and this time he obliged. Normally he didn't. Don't let them get attached, that was his mantra. Ah, but she was sweet. He smiled thinking about her luscious southwestern accent, that blonde hair. Sam's girl was a blonde, wasn't she? He had seen her from a distance once and Sam acted like she was special. Dean was pretty sure that was his girl. Coming back to reality, Dean assured himself that Belinda would be worth the short wait. There was certainly going to be a more-sober round two, first chance he got.

Dean threw down his arm and huffed at the ceiling. "Get up, Dean Winchester. Go take your licks and get it over with."

He leaned over the bed, looking into the pile of clothes next to it. They always traveled light, so how he had accumulated this much stuff, he didn't know for sure. Digging into the pile, he retrieved a pair of jeans and flipped back over to the other side of the bed to pull them on and hop up. He wasn't even sure why he was putting on pants just yet. Dad had warned him enough times that he wasn't too old to go over his knee — metaphorically he hoped — and if anything was going to earn him a beat down, it might just be this. He decided to test the waters — finding out exactly what was waiting for him in the kitchen right now — and get fully dressed later.

He padded into the kitchen, hoping to look as contrite as possible. He knew not to challenge Dad with eye contact, so he didn't look up right away.

"You need a sick day, playboy?" Maybe his Dad really was trying to be the nice guy? Naw.

"No, sir. I'll be alright."

Dean saw the patented Winchester Hangover Cure waiting in his father's hand and took that as a potentially good sign. "That for me?"

"Yup. Good for what ails ya."

He wasn't sure what to make of his dad yet. He couldn't be sure if he stepped over there to take the drink that his dad wouldn't suddenly grab him to get all in his personal space and read him the Riot Act. Of course there were worse things.

"Don't worry. I didn't poison it," his dad said, holding the drink out to him.

" 'S not what I'm worried about," Dean mumbled. He hated the taste of that stuff, but he knew it would work in a flash. Now if he could only be sure what his dad's end game was. The man was nothing if not cunning and he wasn't above using that cunning to trick him and his brother into confessing all sorts of things they swore an oath to never reveal.

"Yeah? What are you worried about then?" This was cat and mouse. Dean was sure of it and he was looking at the biggest cat in the room. But he'd drink the nasty drink because it was the perfect way to stall — for a second.

"I know you're mad."

Silence. Dean was feeling five sizes too small now.

"You're mad, right?"

"About what exactly?"

Seriously? He was going to play this game? With the mess everywhere and the weapons? Dean knew what he was supposed to be doing and he knew John was waiting on him to admit it. "You told me to clean them, Dad, and I was doing it. I really was, I just…"

"You just what?"

And there it was. He could see John was on to him. He could tell John knew something was going on with his son, but didn't want to be the first to voice it. Could he tell it was Sammy? That he missed him? That he hadn't heard his voice in so long that all he could do was worry and feel like he was missing an appendage? That he had tried reaching out more than once, but had been silently rebuffed like the nerdy girl at the dance? And it was hurting him. He couldn't really think straight because maybe he had a different identity before the fire; before his mom was snatched from his grip. But now all that Dean was was tied up in his role as Sammy's and Dad's caretaker, partner, referee, and whatever else they needed. And sure he could let his dad go in and out of his life, the tenuous thread connecting them enough to sustain Dean as long as that thread never broke. But Sammy was different. Dean's main purpose was to protect Sammy. From what, he wasn't always sure. But without his purpose, Dean was floundering. And Dad could see it, couldn't he? Dean could tell Dad the truth. He _should_ tell him that he was just barely hanging on.

But that would be weak. Dad wouldn't appreciate weakness like that. Can't afford to be emotional when there are real monsters out there trying to tear you limb from limb. So he held back, taking another sip of the cure.

Maybe his dad could forgive the weakness if he knew he really had followed at least some of his orders, not that he should have had to order him in the first place. Dean always knew what he had to do. So he held out hope that the research he had uncovered would mollify his father. "Did you see?" he asked.

"I noticed _something_. I haven't had a chance to look at it yet. Got a little busy cleaning up your mess, taking care of you." Dean cringed. He was becoming more of a burden than he should be and he wasn't quite sure how to stop the roll these damn emotions were on. If he stood there much longer, he was going to lose his shit. All he could do was apologize, but even that had to be curtailed because it would expose him for sure.

But it seemed his dad caught the hint. He wouldn't want chick flick moments anymore than Dean did, so when he offered to take them out to eat after they cleaned up the house some, Dean gladly accepted it. It meant Dad was calm again and Dean, hopefully, was off the hook. And look! Dad even bought pie!

"Thanks, Dad," Dean said with all the gratitude of any kid who gets an unexpected treat. He really did love it when they remembered the little things that mattered solely to him.

"Umm hmm. Get moving."

They were headed to a diner. _The_ diner. And Dean couldn't think of a way to talk his dad out of it; not after his dad had just extended an olive branch. He had just gotten _off _the damn hook and if Belinda was at the diner, it would surely dash the peace all to hell. All he could do was hope Belinda was as burnt as he was and would either be late or call out sick. Maybe it was her day off. He could only hope.

As they stepped into the diner, Dean looked around as quickly as he could, his eyes scanning every face, every corner of the place. He was about to relax when his eyes set on the waitress behind the counter. He thought her name was Theresa. She was a friend of Belinda's and had been there when Dean sat in Belinda's section, drew her into a conversation, then made his way to the counter to continue their flirty talk with Theresa cutting her eyes at the pair and occasionally interrupting them to let Belinda know her real customers needed her. But Dean could tell Theresa was the willing accomplice type, so he spread his charm as much over her as he did the object of his lusty affections.

When Theresa told him and John to sit down, Dean wanted to be as far out of her earshot as possible, maybe even out of her zone of the restaurant? But it was slow right now and Dean didn't see any other waitress on duty. Not even Belinda. Thank God for small favors.

"Can't be too careful," he had told his father about his choice of seating. And there was that look again. He was making Dad suspicious. He had to stop doing that.

"Yeah," John said slowly. "You're right."

Dean would have to get his dad's mind off his behavior and back onto the case. But his dad wanted to order first. Then he started asking Dean about how he was feeling and talking about going to see Sammy? He couldn't believe it. His dad rarely spoke so matter-of-factly about visiting the black sheep of the family, as if he really was just some normal kid away at school and Dad was his normal parent wanting to pay his kid a visit. How did he suddenly get to act like he hadn't been part of the cause for the rupture in their family? Dean was getting geared up to say something and damn if that wasn't when Theresa happily bounced over to his table, looking at Dean like she knew him and building his dad's suspicions all over again.

Dean ordered the most innocuous thing he could think of, because his stomach wasn't quite back up to speed yet, plus he really wanted to move Theresa along. He wished she would stop smiling at him like that; that Cheshire cat grin that even a blind man could see, let alone eagle-eyed John Winchester. But if Dean pretended like he didn't know her, she may cause him more trouble than he cared to explain in front of God and everyone. He hoped his own conspiratorial smile would be enough to buy her silence. And it seemed to work.

Theresa left them to fill their orders and Dad, thankfully, finally turned the talk back to the case. Now that was something Dean could get behind.

Dean told Dad what he had uncovered about the victims and the possible link between them. He even risked sharing what Belinda had told him about the house-sitting service, knowing his dad would want to know how he got that particular piece of information. But Dad would have to chalk it up to Dean's awesome investigative skills. After all, he had learned everything from the master.

So they would look into that possible connection and if it meant Dean had to endure yet another quirk of his dad's eyebrow as he questioned Dean's choice of informant, then it was worth it to hear his dad say, "Good work." It didn't take much to make Dean feel all of his worth again. Without Sam there to take some of that focus that Dad gave him, Dean could have a moment to bask in the light of his father's eyes that now looked at him with pride.

Now if only Dad would let go of the fact that Dean's informant was a female. What did Dad expect? He left him to his own devices and Dean got the job done — the Winchester way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the boy or their show, but I very much claim every random thought I have about them, which so far is turning into fan fiction.

**Author's Note/Warning:** Please remember. I am posting weekdays only and not weekends, so the next chapter will come some time on (my) Monday. Also, please remember this is ultimately a discipline fic, but I really feel like it's just one piece of a larger puzzle as opposed to being the whole picture. You can be the judge of that. Enjoy!

**John's POV - Chapter 3**

John and Dean decided to pay a visit to the home of the most recent victim of this odd crime. They had returned to the house to change into their FBI gear and in short order found themselves in front of the sizeable, neatly manicured home. It was not exactly modest, but not ostentatious either. Most likely these were people who were doctors or lawyers or bank presidents. Whoever they were, they had come home to a circus. A body was found in their home and they would likely be skittish.

"Let's go," John said authoritatively, fake badge already in his jacket breast pocket. Dead nodded his affirmation and they quickly stepped out of the car, John falling into step with Dean as they headed to the front door.

The neighborhood was not the sort where homeowners would be outside mowing their own lawns or gardening. Workers dotted the area, toiling in their stead.

Dean stood slightly behind his father as they rang the bell. He noticed the alarm logo on the window of the home and looked around to see the same logo on the windows and lawns of some of the surrounding homes.

A small woman, with disheveled, mostly black hair in a messy ponytail, opened the door. Some wisps of dark hair mixed with gray fell from the loose ponytail and framed her still youthful, but sad face. She wore no makeup, which either made her look younger than her years or older. John couldn't be sure. The woman wrapped a gray sweater tighter around herself. She released the door, looking curiously at the men before her.

"Can I help you?" she asked quietly, gray-blue eyes looking from John to Dean and back again.

"Yes, ma'am," John replied. "Sorry to bother you." John flashed his fake badge. Dean did the same. "I'm Agent Leckie and this is my partner Agent Sledge. We heard about what happened in your home and were hoping to talk with you about it."

The woman considered the men in their nondescript suits. She looked past them and saw the Impala in front of her home, thinking it an odd choice for FBI agents, but she merely looked at the men again. They felt safe. And she could see lots of workers at her neighbors' homes. Surely they would hear her if anything happened.

She stepped back, nodding as she grasped the door to allow them to enter.

Dean looked to John, who had nodded his appreciation at the woman and stepped into the home. Dean followed, giving the woman a sympathetic smile.

"I'm Melissa," she said, taking the lead to show the men into the open room directly in front of them. Stairs flanked both sides of the sunken room, a tasteful chandelier hung overhead in the wide foyer that led to the open area.

"Carey, correct?" John asked. "Melissa Carey and your husband is Paul?"

"Yes," she said, extending her hand to one of the two long, dark blue sofas that faced each other. Both were perpendicular to a wall of glass that led out to an in-ground pool.

John smiled and nodded again, taking a seat. Dean sat beside him. Melissa seated herself across from them, in the middle of the sofa, then thought a bit and asked, "Can I get you something to drink? Water? Iced tea maybe?"

"Sure," Dean replied. John looked over at him, wanting to get on with his interview. He could see Dean refusing to look back.

Melissa nodded and gave them a small smile, pulling on her sweater again and lightly walking across the gray patterned rug. She went behind the sofa where had been seated, through a swinging door.

John watched her go then narrowed his eyes in Dean's direction.

"I just wanted to take a second to take the place in, Dad." John considered this and nodded a single nod. The two looked around then at the neutral palate – blue sofas, gray rug with large blue, rust and gray swirls. They took in the beverage cart against a far wall, above it a large abstract painting in the hues of the room. John noted behind them was an open doorway to another, more intimate sitting room. They could see the floor-to-ceiling bookcases on the walls, rows of books, art, and pictures on the shelves. Heavy leather chairs were facing inward to a part of the room obscured from where they sat. They knew the body of the victim had been found in the office. Maybe that was the room behind them.

Melissa came back in, two drinks in her hands. She moved back to where she had been sitting, leaning over the glass table that was between the sofas. She handed them each a drink, then stepped back around the sofa to go to the beverage cart on the wall behind her. She retrieved two coasters. Returning to where she sat, she placed the coasters on the table before John and Dean, then sat gingerly back on the sofa. Her black legging-covered legs pressed together. She cocooned herself in her gray sweater once again.

John took a sip of the too-sweet tea and set it down on the coaster, while Dean took bigger sips of his.

"Mrs. Carey," John started.

"Melissa," she corrected.

"Melissa. The local police filled us in. But can you tell us what happened in your own words?"

The woman sighed as she looked out the glass doors. She tilted her head, looking back to the agents in her home. "FBI?" she asked in a musing tone, ignoring John's question. "Why do you care about this?"

"Um, one of the victims…," Dean intervened, glancing quickly at his father. He set down the cold drink. "…was wanted in Ohio. We can't go into why. But his death here now makes this a federal case."

"Oh," Melissa said, accepting the excuse. She sat further back on the sofa. Her eyes shifted, looking at nothing in particular, but clearly recalling the events that led them to this point.

"Paul had a business meeting in Seattle. He only had to talk to some potential new client of his for maybe the span of a lunch, maybe dinner. But he asked me if I wanted to possibly make this into a getaway for a week. We've been…" Melissa looked back at the men now, shyly smiling at them. She clasped her hands and looked down at her manicured nails. She tucked her hair behind one ear. "We've been trying. To get pregnant. And it's been…difficult, you know?"

John and Dean watched the woman. Neither moved while she spoke.

"It's been a long time. Starts to feel like a job, actually, and Paul knew I was just a little tired. From the last round. We just knew it would take, but…" Melissa let her thoughts trail.

"Anyway, so he thought it would be good to go somewhere for a little while, get out of this place. We usually just lock the place up, tell a select few friends to keep an eye out and we go. But Paul's been doing really well lately and he's been indulging in his love of cars." Melissa chuckled to herself as she looked back at her nails.

"He had bought himself a 1965 Shelby Cobra Roadster maybe 6 months ago?" she pondered, her tongue tripping over the lengthy name of the car. "Most recently he got himself some Oldsmobile convertible from some guy in Texas. Super 88, I think he called it. He keeps them both in our garage. It's only a 3-car garage right now. I don't know what he's going to do after he gets a third one. We already have to park our everyday cars in the driveway. I've told him about the clutter…" she trailed again. "Sorry," Melissa apologized, as she noticed the men's patient looks.

"No need," John replied with understanding.

"Sounds like he's building himself a prized collection," Dean added.

"Yeah. He is. So with that and just, well, the addition of some more expensive things around here, we thought maybe a house sitter would be the way to go, even though we have the security system, which is really good.

"We looked in a few places and settled on Safe Homes because we knew a few people who had used them and they were also recommended by my friend Belinda. So we called them, went to their offices, spoke with the guy who handles the sitters and he introduced us to the young lady who would take care of ours. Lori. She was a nice girl. Going to college and was just looking to make some extra money. Even though she's a college girl, she was very mature and sounded so responsible, getting herself a job like this and all. We figured it would be ok. Plus the company is insured and there's a contract, so we knew we had a form of restitution."

"So Lori was here how long?" John asked.

"We left on a Sunday and Lori called us on a Tuesday night. She said she was just feeling spooked by our statue."

John and Dean looked confused at each other then back at Melissa.

"Your statue?" Dean asked.

Melissa nodded, starting to get upset. She tucked her hair behind her ear again. "Yeah," she breathed, her voice starting to break a bit. "She called Paul's cell. We were getting ready to go to dinner and Paul got a call. I heard him say Lori's name so I listened. She was telling him about some creepy statue in our office upstairs. We had told her that was the room where we kept all our movies, so if she wanted to watch any of them she could."

"Uh huh," John replied, pulled into her story.

"So she called and said she hadn't noticed it before because she hadn't been all the way into the room but for a second to put some mail on Paul's desk. But that night she went in to look at the movies and she saw our clown statue in the corner. She was trying to watch a movie, but the statue was freaking her out, so she was calling to ask if it was ok for her to turn it around. She didn't know how valuable it was and didn't want to break anything."

Melissa stopped at this point to look around herself. "Ummm, shoot. I don't have any…"

"Oh, here," Dean said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a small packet of tissues, handing the pack to Melissa. She smiled, sniffing and gratefully accepting the tissues. She pulled one out and reached to hand Dean the rest. Dean shook his head. "It's ok. You keep them," he said gently.

Melissa nodded and dabbed her eyes. "So," John continued. "She wanted to turn the statue around?"

Melissa nodded. "Yeah, except…" she sniffed again, dabbing at one eye. "Except we don't have a statue like that," Melissa rushed. "Paul was gesturing to me and I wasn't sure what he was saying at first. Then I realized he wanted me to get my phone. He told Lori to leave the room and she must have been asking why because he kept saying, 'Just do me a favor please and head on downstairs.' He was telling me on the side to call the police and send them to our house. Then I heard him tell Lori to stay calm because he was going to tell her something. And then he asked her if she had left the room and she said she had. Then he told her we don't have a clown statue. Next thing I know Paul is screaming for Lori…" Melissa sniffed again, the tears coming freely now. "But she never answered," she whispered.

"So this happened while you were away. You never saw the body?" John asked.

"No, but we saw pictures when we got back. We returned that night, as fast as we could. Well, it was early morning, actually. The cops had showed us pictures to help identify her. She had this weird makeup on her face and neck. And her neck…" Melissa hugged herself again. "It was so red and…and twisted." Melissa shut her eyes a moment. "The colors on here some kind of bright, thick makeup." Melissa sighed a heavy sigh, dropping her hands in her lap as John and Dean looked at each other.

"It's so weird," Melissa went on, looking up at the ceiling, shaking her head. She looked back at the agents as if she were going to let them in on a secret. "There's this story around here. About some evil clown or something. I guess it's supposed to be a…a ghost or creature or something," Melissa shook her head again, clearly not believing her own words. "I don't know what it is. But it's supposedly appearing in people's homes and killing them. Can you believe that?"

John could believe anything.

She sniffed again, wiping an eye with the back of one shaking hand. "My friend, Belinda? She's the one who told me about it one night when we went out for drinks." She laughed a sad laugh. "What the hell. Clowns are supposed to bring joy, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," Dean replied. "Well, it's certainly a strange event."

"Ha!" Melissa laughed again. "Strange indeed."

"Melissa," John called. "Would you mind if we see the room where this happened?"

Melissa looked momentarily startled by the idea. "Oh, yes, yes, of course." She stood up, brushing nothing off her lap while she rose. "Just follow me."

John and Dean nodded as Melissa moved to head back to the foyer, Dean following behind her with John bringing up the rear. She turned to the right to go up the staircase, turning slightly to talk to whomever was closest to her. It was Dean. "I haven't been in here…"

"No, no of course not. You don't have to. If it's ok, my partner and I can look in alone. If you're uncomfortable with it."

They reached the top landing where Melissa pointed down a short hallway to a closed door at the end of it. Bright yellow police tape was a stark contrast against the dark wood. Melissa stepped around John and Dean so they were now in front and she was once again wrapping her sweater around herself with nervous fear clouding her eyes.

"Yeah, that will be ok. Lori said she saw…whatever she saw…in the corner, behind the door."

"Thank you," John said. "We won't take long."

"It's ok. I'll just let you look." Melissa's hand reached out to the railing. She took a small step back to the stairs. "I'll be downstairs when you're done."

"OK. Thanks," John answered. He looked at Dean, nodding toward the door. Dean went ahead, carefully detaching the police tape, and opened the door. Melissa quickly made her way down the stairs.

John and Dean entered the room. It had a library feel, like the one downstairs, except there were no leather chairs. They saw a window across from them on the furthest wall, a rust-colored roman shade pulled up about 1/3 of the way, cream-colored curtains cascading to the floor while letting in some of the bright Reno light. The room was spacious, allowing for a big screen TV to be hung on the wall to their right, a fireplace below it and flanked by more floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with all sorts of books and more movies than a cinema.

A deep-seat, burnt orange sofa faced the TV with two ottomans in front of it. Tasteful, complimentary throw pillows in natural colors such as green, tan and patterns with orange designs were neatly strewn on the cushions. The floor was hardwood this time, a cherry-kind of color. Directly behind the sofa was a large desk, a slim computer sat in the center, some mail right next to it, but there was no other clutter on top.  
>Stepping in, John saw there were cases behind the desk, displaying varied model cars. More abstract art decorated the wall along with speakers, which John assumed were for surround sound. There was another desk across the room in front of the window where a laptop sat closed on top along with some papers. Plants short and tall were placed around the room, some on the floor, some on shelves.<p>

It was a cozy enough area. John could take it all in right away. He remembered what Melissa said and grabbed the door to pull it closed. He looked behind it. There was a jukebox on the short wall, leaving enough room for something to be there unnoticed by anyone who walked in.  
>The girl had been found lying across the ottomans like she might have been taking a nap. John looked at the area where the being, or whatever it was, allegedly was located. He examined the wall, the floor, even the side of the jukebox. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Dean pulled out his homemade EMF meter, checking behind him in case Melissa had changed her mind, and began to scan in front of the sofa, around it, under it, for any kind of clue.<p>

"I've got nothin'," he said.

"Yeah," John replied. "Here either." He pushed the door closed a little more, suddenly noticing a spot of color on the dark wood.

"What?" Dean asked

"Not sure," John said, looking closer at the area. He rubbed his thumb on it and it came off on his skin. "Some kind of thick yellow substance of some sort." John thought a moment. Unbeknownst to his sons, he had been on the trail of whatever it was that had killed his wife, the mother of his children. He knew it had been some sort of demon and his research, plus a few cases he had caught trying to get a handle on demons in general, had showed him that they always left a yellow powder behind – sulphur.

John glanced back at Dean who had resumed looking around the room, then John brought the yellow substance to his nose. It didn't have a smell. Had to be something else. He rubbed his fingers together.

"It's like some kind of…paint?"

Dean looked up from the desk by the window. "Didn't they find some kind of weird makeup on the girl?"

John nodded. "We need to get a look at her." John turned fully to face his son. "We need to look into Safe Homes. We need to take a look at this girl Lori and the other victims too…"

"And we need to find out more about this friggin' ghost clown Melissa is talking about," Dean added.

"Uh huh," John said. "Did you know Reno was the clown capital of the world?"

"Uh, sorry. Trivial Pursuit was never one of my favorite games, Dad ," Dean retorted.

John rolled his eyes. "OK, so it's not exactly something I could have told you before. You know how Sam feels about clowns."

Dean nodded, saying nothing as he looked away. John ignored the heavy feeling he suddenly got when he mentioned Sam.

"Let's split up. I'll go to the police station; see what else I can find out about the victims. Then I'll head over to the Safe Homes offices so I can talk to the manager there. I know the clown capital of the world has a special museum downtown so I'll drop you there. You see what you can find out about our mysterious homicidal clown."

"Oh, joy," Dean answered.

"You call me when you're done, ok? We'll see what we've got. We need to get this bastard before anyone else dies."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the boy or their show, but I very much claim every random thought I have about them, which so far is turning into fan fiction.

**Author's Note/Warning:** If you really hate clowns, then this story is either the worst thing ever (hopefully that's the only reason!) or you hate them so much that you love it when people put them in their stories. Soooo...there you go. You were warned.

**Dean's POV - Chapter 3.5**

As John and Dean pulled up to the home where the latest victim was found, Dean had found himself a little more curious about Belinda. If her friends could afford a home like this, what did that say about her? He couldn't think about that right now though.

He noticed the houses around him as he and Dad went to the front door of Melissa's home. The same alarm company was being used and Dean wondered if that was coincidence or a clue. He quickly forgot about it, however, once he was inside and Melissa was telling her story; that wild and crazy story about a creepy clown statue and…a clown ghost? Sam would be shaking in his heavy-duty boots if he were here right now, although he'd pretend like it didn't bother him. But Dean knew better.

Dad had decided Dean should go to the clown museum to see what he could find out about what could be instigating this legend, and that was fine by him. The sooner they got this hunt figured out, the sooner they could go see Sammy and he could find out what the deal was with his suddenly silent sibling.

John dropped Dean off at the museum without nary a look back at the odd building where he was leaving his eldest. Dean watched John pull off. He turned back to the colorful museum, framed by life-sized statues of friendly clowns beckoning you to enter the doors. Circus-themed music blared from outdoor speakers and Dean hated the place immediately. The loud colors and music were more annoying than fun, but he stepped quickly through the doors hoping to get some sort of auditory relief at the very least.

He didn't. Not right away. More of the same music was playing as a giant carousel in the middle of the room spun, clown statues of varying heights and costumes standing, sitting on benches or riding atop horses in midstride. It was like an oversized music box was playing the most annoying song ever.

On the walls were framed photos of various famous clowns – or at least Dean assumed they were famous. He didn't exactly know his clown history – or care to know. He walked over to a far wall and read the names – Joseph Grimaldi, Emmett Kelly, there were a slew of Bozos.

Dean walked further down the row, his face twisted in perplexity at all the oddities as he went.

"Can I help you?"

Dean's eyes swept the room for the disembodied voice that seemed to be coming from the carousel. He took a few more steps forward to see around it and noticed the lanky young man who must have been watching him when he entered.

He searched his brain right quick for the name his father had told Melissa. "Uh yeah, hi," he started as he walked to the waiting man. "I'm Agent Sledge and I just have a few questions I wanted to ask you."

"Robert," the man replied, running his fingers nervously through wild, curly brown hair. He didn't leave it in any better shape than it was before he touched the tiny tumbleweed. "What can I do for the FBI?"

Dean thumbed back at the clowns on the wall. "I didn't realize there were so many famous clowns in the world," he said to the man. "Must have been too busy gettin' laid," he mumbled to himself.

"Oh yes," Robert replied, not hearing Dean's last statement. Robert clearly lit up at the mention of what must have been his favorite subject. "You know they started out as Fools who entertained much of royalty in many countries around our world. That morphed into court jesters who dressed in colorful outfits and performed all kinds of acrobatics…"

"Uh huh," Dean replied with feigned interest.

"…and then the jester became someone known as a Zany, which you could find in the first fairs that started to move from town to town around 1,000 A.D. Then in Italy, in the 1,500s, there was a show called the Comedy of Arts. That show revolved around the Zany and before you know it, you have the clown as we know them today!"

Robert finished with a flourish, spreading his arms as he waved slightly at all the memorabilia around him.

"Fascinating," Dean replied a little on the high-pitched side. "You'll have to forgive me. My clown knowledge doesn't extend much past Ronald and Pennywise."

Robert wrinkled his nose. "Yes, our modern culture doesn't exactly take the time to look into the greats who inspired the caricatures that advertising agencies and authors are getting rich off of. Pennywise? Yuck." Robert shuddered. "I don't have too much tolerance for the evil situations in which some people try to place these magnificent entertainers."

"Yeah, clowns just wanna have fun, huh?" Dean grinned at his own joke waiting for Robert to join in. Robert quirked an eyebrow instead, turning to go to the tall desk where he must have been hiding when Dean came in.

Dean followed him. "Well, listen, Robert. I'm actually here because of those _evil situations_."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Have you heard anything about the deaths that have been happening around here? People being found dead? In _other_ people's homes?"

"Uh yeah, I guess I have heard something about that. But what's that got to do with us here?"

"Well, one of the homeowners spoke about some ghost story that's going around your town? A ghost clown or something?"

Robert inhaled as he ran his fingers through his curly mess again. "Oh, yeah. Yeah I know about that. It's a legend. Kinda like one of those scary home-alone stories you hear about. You know, with the babysitter getting a call from a stranger who turns out to actually be in the house. Except in this case there is a clown standing poised like a statue and the babysitter or visitor or whomever it is who doesn't normally live there sees it and gets creeped out. So they call up the homeowner who is away at the time and the homeowner tells the person there _is_ no such statue in their home." Robert rolls his eyes at the lunacy of it. "How crazy can it get? It's just a story!"

"Is it? Because people are getting killed, Rob," Dean tells him seriously.

"Riiiight," Robert replies as if the lunacy had now taken shape before him. "Well, I know the legend. But it's just a legend, man." Robert pauses in thought, "And the name is Robert."

Dean considers Robert a moment, but continues his questioning. "So is there such a clown from around here who may have been a tad…I don't know. Homicidal? That you know of?"

Robert sighed as he fiddled with some papers on his desk that was hidden behind the high counter. "That darn opera, Pagliacci, from 1892, didn't help our cause," he mumbled absently.

"Pagliacci?" Dean repeated.

"Yeah," Robert said matter-of-factly, putting his now-impatient focus back on Dean. "It's about a clown who murders his unfaithful wife and her lover."

"I see," Dean said, nodding his understanding, but not getting the reference.

Robert sniffed. "And then there's John Wayne Gacy."

"Oh yeah!" Dean exclaimed. "He was, ummm…"

"Pogo."

"Pogo!" Dean snapped quickly in remembrance. Robert sucked his teeth at the enthusiasm.

"Yeah. And you already pretty much mentioned Stephen King, the movies that depict clowns as these horrid creatures." Robert stops to look t Dean again. "They were innocent entertainers for hundreds and hundreds of years. Even that opera most likely didn't turn the clown as evil as the 20th century did," he said sadly.

"So what do you think?" Dean asked, choosing not to go to Robert's pity party. "Was there someone local?"

Robert sighed and thought a bit. "As far as I know, that legend isn't based on anyone in particular. No one from around here anyway. I'd say what you have is something that _looks_ like the legend, but it's something else entirely."

Dean twisted his mouth at the suggestion. Maybe it wouldn't be as easy as that to nail this one down. "OK, thanks for your help, Rob."

"Robert."

"Yup," Dean replied nonchalantly, turning to leave. Then he turned back. "Fear of clowns? That's a real thing, isn't it?"

"Actually it is. It's called coulrophobia and it's got a pretty interesting history…"

"Yeah, no." Dean interjected, checking a mental list that would have made no sense to Robert, then continuing his incongruent questioning, Columbo style. "What about local clowns? Where do they get their costumes and makeup?"

"Funny People," he said, confused by the haphazard questioning. "It's an association for the clown workers. They sell a lot of those things there. Of course you can always find some basic stuff in a costume shop and places like that."

"Of course," Dean replied, thinking again. "Coulrophobia?"

Robert nodded, choosing not to understand what Dean was trying to suss out for himself. "Coulrophobia."

"Thanks."

"Yep." Robert quickly left the desk to head to a back room, running his fingers through his shaggy mane, already focused on something new.

_Sam hates clowns,_ Dean thought to himself. "And it has a name. Who knew?" Dean pulled out his phone again to look at the calls that had come in and gone out. Sam's number was listed so many times going out. He wasn't sure how far back he'd have to scroll to see Sam's number as an incoming call again.

Dean walked out of the building, still staring at his phone. The happy clowns that surrounded him were doing nothing but reminding him of the pain of his loss. The case was suddenly starting to pale in comparison. "You would hate this, wouldn't you Sammy?" Dean spoke to the air.

He stood in the bright sun, looking around the moderately busy town. He stood there and pondered his next move. He was supposed to call Dad to come get him. He was supposed to be thinking more about this hunt and everything that Rob guy just told him. It was a legend; most likely there would be no real person's ghost that they could easily put an end to by salting and burning the body. Legends were harder to fight, but there would be a way. And he should be thinking about that way. But he couldn't. Because he was back to thinking about Sam and he knew what he had to do.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes/Warning:** So I'm realizing my previous warnings about clowns in previous chapters was tame compared to my warning now. If they freak you out, like they do me, then consider yourself warned when I say I freaked _myself_ out. For me, this was like therapy. Oh, and it's the longest chapter yet. I'll try to curtail that a bit in the future. Enjoy...if you can.

**John's POV - Chapter 4**

John drove to the police station conflicted. Something was up with Dean, but he would have to wait. There was something out there wrestling the life from these local folk and he was pretty sure it wasn't a demon. So what was it? Whatever it was, he needed to end it. He needed to end all of it. This evil that was set on wreaking havoc in the inane but peaceful lives of the people of North America.

The police station was on the other side of town from the museum, but the town wasn't that large, so before he knew it, he found himself pulling up in front of an early 19th century, brown brick building. The police uniforms were just a darker shade of brown themselves, tending to blend in with the dusty desert that surrounded them.

John parked a block away so as not to arouse too much suspicion once he introduced himself as a colleague. As he walked confidently past all the uniforms streaming in and out of the hive like bees, he was struck by how humid the inside of the building was, considering they were in a desert. Maybe they were too cheap to turn on the air.

"I'd like to see the officer in charge of the house-sitting murders," he told the young woman seated at the desk not far from the entrance. She didn't seem impressed. "And who are you again?"

"Agent Leckie." He flashed his FBI pseudo-badge. "Working a case that started in Ohio and ended here – as one of your weird ass murder victims?" The woman looked uncertainly at the badge, then back at John.

"I really don't have all day, young lady, so can you call the head guy and let's get this done?"

(~~~)

John found himself seated before the case's lead detective. He looked like he wasn't much older than Dean – darker hair, darker eyes, but clearly no slouch in the strength department. Like Dean, this kid looked like he had seen more than his years should allow. He wouldn't be an easy nut to crack. But John had seen as much, maybe more. More than most people ever would. And he could be a hammer.

"OK, sir, my name is Detective Truman. Cindy out there said you wanted to speak with me about the homicide of local house sitters?"

"Yes, one of your victims was wanted in connection with a case in Ohio. Looks like he got himself a job out here as a house sitter and he died on the job. Never expected a job like that to be a hazard to one's health, huh?"

"We've had a few of those, yeah," the young detective replied with suspicion that matched Cindy's. It was a small town. Feds were never welcomed. "Who are you talking about?"

John had done his homework. He knew the names of all the victims and enough about each to get what he needed. He leaned forward.

"Steven Collins. Age 26. Born in Cincinnati. On the run from some distribution charges, but connected to some counterfeiters who probably helped give him a new identity, which helped him slip past a background check. A check that should have come through your department, right?"

The detective sat back at the verbal assault.

"Blond? Light brown eyes? Ring any bells?"

"Yeah. A few."

"OK then. How about we get down to business?"

(~~~)

Forty-five minutes later, John sighed as he sat back in the familiarity of the Impala's leather seat. The detective had shared all he could. John had seen the pictures of Lori and the angry twist of her neck. The odd streaks of color on her face. He had seen the pictures of all the vics, and the police were at a loss as to who was breaking in. Security cameras were picking up victims, not perpetrators. Or just one perpetrator maybe?

It had the makings of a ghost, or some sort of creature with the ability to slip past the cameras. However, it could also be a very tech-savvy serial killer. Either way, it was time to pay a visit to Safe Homes. He shook his head at the irony. No one, apparently, was safe. Not the families. Not the sitters. Not his wife. Not his children.

He shook off the nostalgia and fired up the car's engine. Victor Holden. That was the name the detective had given him of the Safe Homes manager. Victor had some explaining to do.

(~~~)

The Safe Homes headquarters were located in a non-descript office park. For a business that was focused on safety, it didn't take very much for John to find Victor's office and surprise the man. There was an empty desk outside the glass-walled office. The assistant must have been out to lunch. John watched as the man inside paced back and forth in the small space. He was talking on a cell phone and hadn't noticed right away he was being observed. He turned to face the glass and froze when he saw John.

Even when trying to be nonchalant, John's presence tended to be menacing. The man straightened, his composure slipping into place as he spoke a few more words, then held the phone at his side.

John stepped to the door, wrangling his best "good cop" persona into position, plastered a smile on his face and entered.

"Hi there," John said, extending his hand. "Sorry to startle you. I was trying to wait for your assistant, but looks like they're out to lunch?"

The man nodded as his eyes took in John's official appearance. The two men stood in silence a moment, John trying to send a vibe of assurance that he was safe; the man expressionless and unreadable. He tilted his head, blinking at John, a slow, friendly smile blossoming on his face. John looked puzzled by the change in the man.

"Yeah. Sorry 'bout that," he replied, offering his own hand. "I'm Victor." He pumped John's hand vigorously. "Victor Holden." Victor chuckled nervously, stuffing his phone in his pocket and looking around like he had just forgotten what he was about to do.

"I'm sorry there was no one there to greet you. Steph's at lunch right now," he explained with a laugh. "We aren't normally this unguarded!" Victor stopped looking around as he rubbed his hands together to focus on John. He chuckled again. "We can't always have our defenses up, right? But that's why we have other eyes," he said nodding to the corner of his office.

John turned to see what Victor was referring to. He looked around, at the glass wall, then the painted wall where vacation photos hung like trophies. He almost turned back and then he spotted the tiniest little square in the corner. John stepped forward squinting at the tiny box on a swivel head. It was a gray color that almost blended into the background. John's mind instantly went over all the possible hidden cameras they might have missed in the houses. They might just get lucky if one of the murders was caught on camera.

"Ah, this belong to you, or do you have a security company too?"

"Actually, it is one of ours. We are a full-service security company. Homes, offices, people. I mean we work in conjunction with the local police, but we have our own security force too."

"Uh huh," John replied. He turned back to Victor "And what about your employees?"

Victor quirked his head in confusion. John gave him a small smile as he took a couple of steps forward. "Steven Collins. Lori Addison. Cassie Sloane? All house sitters for you, right? Or used to be?"

Victor straightened at the mention of the names, the color starting to drain from his face.  
>"I'm sorry. Who...who did you say you were?"<p>

"I'm sorry. I didn't. Agent Leckie, FBI. I'm looking into these strange deaths."

Victor nodded. "Of course. Yes." He looked at John a moment, another unreadable expression swept over his face before his friendly demeanor returned.

"Have a seat, agent?" Victor motioned to the seat in front of his desk as he stepped around to sit in his black leather chair.

John sat, his eyes never leaving Victor.

Victor rubbed his hand down his face, lingering on his chin as he continued to skim his finger along his jaw. He looked out to the empty office where his assistant would have been. "It's a tragedy, Agent Leckie. Six of our own people. Six," he hissed. His hand fell to the desk as he looked at John. "It was my job," he said. "My job to protect those homes AND my people. I just don't know what's going on." He sighed as he sat back. His hands gripped the arms of his chair.

"Frankly, I'm surprised you're still in business right now."

"Contract, Agent Leckie. The homeowners sign them in advance and we have a few more jobs on the books. That's not to say that business hasn't been affected."

"Of course it has."

"I am responsible for the people on my payroll too, Mr. Leckie. I want to know what's happening, just like you do, and put a stop to it."

John nodded. "Have you considered that maybe this is an inside job?"

"What?" Victor sat up again. "You think one of my own people…"

"It's possible, right? Who else knew those homes would be empty of their owners, with your workers there instead?"

"That could be anyone! Starting with the homeowners! They are a tight-knit community – any one of their countless employees could have done it."

"Which would make sense if we were talking about a robbery," John interjected. "But nothing was stolen. So, does that make any sense to you?"

Victor sat back. He sighed again as he stared at his hands.

John softened at the sight of the man. He appeared to be as confused by it all as he was.

"Look, Victor. Your people are being killed. The homeowners are all different. They aren't even connected to each other. The only connection is this place."

Victor raised his head, his eyes betraying his sadness as he attempted to regain his professional composure.

"Now, Victor, who here arranges the placement of these workers in the homes?"

"I do," he said.

John sat back. "Just you?"

"Well, my girl, Stephanie, she has access and I do have a few employees here to help with payroll and the like. But Steph and I meet everyone. We're a small team right now so I interview the prospects, meet with the clients, Steph helps me with all the scheduling but pretty much, it's me." Victor leaned forward to place his clasped hands on the desk.

"But it's not me, Agent Leckie. OK? I swear." Victor rose from his chair to walk over to the window of his office. He stared out the blinds, his back to John. "But I think I know what it is."

"You do?" John asked.

"Yeah. I'm cursed."

John turned in his chair now. "Cursed," he repeated skeptically.

Victor turned back to John. "Agent, you are never gonna believe me."

"I can believe a lot of things, Victor. Why don't you try me."

Victor sighed a deep sigh. "Well, my parents never believed me and it's been following me my whole life."

John positioned himself a little more comfortably, but didn't want to spook Victor so he stayed seated and waited.

"I'm haunted, Agent. I'm haunted and now it's spreading to the people I am connected to."

"Why don't you tell me what you mean by that, Victor."

Victor turned to sit on the arm of the sofa that was right in front of the window. He looked at his hands as he spoke. "It happened one Halloween when I went trick-or-treating with my older brother. I was 10. He was daring me to go to some old house and I was scared, so he ditched me to go play some stupid pranks with his friends."

"Gotta love that brotherly love." And for a moment John thought of his boys and was grateful to know they would never desert each other that way.

"I had something to prove. So I went. It was one of those homes where you hardly ever saw the people who lived there, but they usually went all out for Halloween. I went there and rang the bell. The door opened really slowly, all creepy like. And it was all dark inside, but I never saw anyone actually open the door."

"So you went in," John guessed.

"Of course. I told you. I had something to prove. I went in and it was just so dark. Then the door slammed behind me. I tried to open it, but it just wouldn't budge. I was alone. Before long there was this glow coming from a room ahead of me. It was mesmerizing. Called to me, you know? So I went. Down this long, dark hall. It felt like the longest walk of my life, but I thought it might be the way out. So I kept going. The first thing I saw were all these candles on a table in the middle of the room and curtains on all the walls. It looked like I was walking in on a séance, or a sacrifice even. And then I saw it. There was this clown. Just standing there, staring at me. I coulda jumped out of my skin, but then I saw it wasn't moving. I thought it was some weird statue, so I got closer. It was so lifelike with this white face, big red frown, blue hair. I was…in a trance. And then I felt…something. I turned around and I froze. There was another one across the room. I didn't see it when I first walked in. And that's when I realized there were more, all standing against the walls, all around the room. I thought I was gonna freak."

"Sounds…traumatizing," John replied.

Victor hugged himself. "They moved."

"What?"

"I thought they were all statues. I couldn't figure out how I missed them when I went in, and I started to feel like I was suffocating. It was like they were watching my every move and as I looked at one, I could swear I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. I kept missing it until I realized they were closing in on me. I was surrounded!" Victor began to become more animated as he spoke.

"My heart was leaping out my chest, and all I could do was scream as they kept drawing closer and closer with those menacing eyes and evil grins. I was finally able to crawl between the legs of one of them to run out the door, and they were chasing me, down that long ass hall. And just when I reached the door, I could feel myself being pulled back. Red gloved hands were grabbing my arms, but I pulled away and found the door wasn't locked after all."

Victor breathed deep and looked intently at John.

"I got out, Agent. I got out and when I turned back to look, the door had slammed behind me so I ran. All the way home. I even beat my stupid brother home. When my mom saw I was alone she reamed him," Victor snorted to himself at the memory.

"I was up all night watching the shadows. I was exhausted. It was the weekend so I just stayed in my room, slept all day and I stayed up all night. I never had so many nightmares before. By the time Monday came I was a wreck, but I couldn't convince my mom to let me stay home from school. She thought I just ate too much candy that weekend, or watched too many horror movies, and that I needed to learn a lesson from it."

Victor got up and walked to a cabinet located on the wall of photos. He opened a door and John could see it was a bar. Victor pulled out a bottle, turned over a tumbler and poured himself a drink, holding the bottle to John in a silent question. John shook his head. Victor nodded, replacing the bottle as he grabbed the tumbler. He then went to sit on the sofa.

"I went to school, Agent. It was the longest day of my life. I was so tired. At the end of the day, I walked home, like I always do. I had to pass one of those abandoned factories, you know the kind?"

"Yes," John answered, standing slowly to lean against the desk. He wanted to have full view of Victor as he continued his tale.

"I had to go past one of those on my way to school and back home. It was off limits to kids, but of course we always hung out there. Well, they did. I didn't get asked to hang out all that much. Usually I was alone. I was alone when I walked past that place that day on my way home. And I didn't see anyone following me, but I kept hearing jingling. When I got to the factory, it seemed even louder so I stopped and I looked. You know what I saw, Agent?"

John could guess.

"One of those damn clowns. He was waving at me at first, then he was beckoning me. I felt like I was going to panic again, and I started to run. I ran right into this old dude with a cane. He grabbed me and asked me what my problem was. I know I was babbling and I went to point at that friggin' clown… no one was there. Gone. Just as fast as he came."

"Did you find out who it was?"

Victor snorted. "Yeah. It was my nightmare. He had stepped right out of it into my reality, Agent. I was seeing that clown, that exact clown, in my dreams." Victor downed the rest of his drink before setting it heavily on the table before him. "I told you, Agent. I'm haunted."

"But how?"

"That clown? He's literally followed me my whole life."

"You still see it?"

"Yes. But no one else can, it seems. And there have been times…" Victor paused as he rubbed his hand roughly on his neck.

"Times…," John started.

"There have been times when I was so sure he – it – was the reason for the things going wrong in my life. It was small stuff before. Losing a girlfriend here and there. I had a roommate accuse me of trashing his stuff in our room in college."

"That doesn't sound so small to me," John said.

"Well, compared to murder, Agent? Small potatoes."

John crossed his arms as he thought about Victor's ghost or whatever it was. "So you think…"

"What I think is crazy. Or it was. Until I heard about the legend. I'm from here, Agent. Been here all my life. I had never heard that legend as a kid. What are the chances that they aren't connected?"

John didn't know what to think. Something was haunting Victor and it was remarkably similar in tale to whatever was killing his employees.

Victor's cell phone chirped as John was about to speak. Victor pulled it out, looking at the lit screen.

"I'm sorry, Agent. Could you excuse me a moment? You can stay here. I'll be right back."

Pretending to have an interest in the photos, he walked toward the wall. He peered at the pictures, studying them, one hand propped casually on the glass. He looked closer, his hand moving up and along the glass until he reached the area of the camera. He saw the camera was on a swivel of some sort and he pushed it so it was positioned toward the ceiling.

Checking the office again, he saw he was still alone and moved quickly to Victor's desk to check out the file. John saw a list of names, addresses and more names beside each. Drawing his finger down, he spotted Melissa and Paul Carey. Moving over he saw their address and then Lori's name. This must have been the client/sitter schedule.

John noted the dates as he drew further down the list. There was a home slated for a house sitting job the next night. Rory Myers was the sitter on tap. John memorized the address and hurried back to his seat in front of the desk as Victor walked back around the corner to his office.

"I'm sorry, Agent…"

"No need to apologize, Mr. Holden. I think I got what I need for now. I'll be in touch, ok?"

"Sure, sure," Victor replied, reaching to shake John's hand once more. "Anything I can do to help. I'm devastated by this. I'm sorry to, um, scare you with my talk…"

"Not scared, Mr. Holden. Clearly something is going on. And I'm here to help."

Victor nodded. "I know it's just my imagination," Victor said. "It's gotta be. But what if it's not?"

(~~~)

John went back to his car to think. Victor sounded like most haunted people did. Except maybe his nightmare had found its way out into reality and it was going after innocents.

Damn clowns. It was no wonder Sammy didn't like the things. He wasn't overly fond of them himself. All that makeup and secrecy. Painted smiles that could easily be hiding more nefarious intent. He understood the disdain some people had; that Sam had. Speaking of Sam, it had been a long time and it was about time he checked up on his younger son again. Maybe it would even help Dean's weird mood to see his brother again, if only from afar. He couldn't risk Sam finding out that he checked up on him, of course. Sam would climb up on that high horse of his and read him and Dean the riot act for spying on him. But John needed this right now. Dean needed it. And John was going to make sure to take care of two birds with one stone as soon as this hunt was done. For all of their sakes.

John smiled at the thought of seeing Dean happy again. He moved to put the key in the ignition when he spotted Victor coming out of his office building. Not expecting to be noticed in his car, he watched as Victor strode to another car in the lot and got in. John looked at the time. It was only after 2 p.m. Not exactly too late for a late lunch, he supposed. But Victor was looking…off to him.

Victor got in his car and John started his, deciding to follow him for a bit, while he tried Dean one last time. "Damn it, Dean. What the hell are you doing?"

Victor drove, once again oblivious to John watching him. He went through town leading John through streets heavy with a late lunch crowd. There were enough cars for John to feel confident that Victor wouldn't notice him, but he stayed a few carlengths back anyway.

Before long, Victor was pulling into the lot of a diner. He was just grabbing lunch, John thought, but Victor kept driving toward the back of the diner. Assuming there was another lot there, John stayed where he was and waited. After about 5 minutes, he looked around to see if Victor might have slipped into the diner. He looked at the heads as they moved about inside, then wondered if there might have been another door in the back.

John drove to the back lot. It was larger than he had expected. That was when he noticed there were more cars sitting neatly in rows a little further away. There was another business behind the diner.

John drove ahead, keeping his distance, and he moved along the edges of the lot looking for Victor's car. He finally spotted it parked in a row close to the building. He drove in front of the vehicle to get a look inside, but Victor wasn't there. Driving to the other side of the building, John thought he'd be able to sit unnoticed while he checked things out from the outside. He looked up in search of a sign and spotted the name in thick, faded script on the side of the pink, brick wall.

_Funny People._


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **Not my show, not my boys, all my thoughts. So there.

**Author's Note:** So _this_ is now the longest chapter so far, but only by 7 words. It's actually one of my favorites. Hope you like it.

**Dean's POV - Chapter 4.5**

He couldn't take it any longer. All the silence. All the ignored calls and texts. All the stupid clowns reminding Dean of his stupid little brother and how much he missed the gigantic, stubborn ass.

He was supposed to be calling his dad to pick him up so they could figure out their next steps. There were people out there who needed saving and Dad was going to be looking for him to decide their next step. But Dean couldn't think about Dad, endangered townsfolk, none of it. He had to know what was going on with Sam. This was the thought that made him wander down the streets of Reno, looking for just the right thing. And as if on cue, Dean's cell blared its presence. He looked at the caller ID. It was Dad. Hitting ignore, Dean pocketed the phone. He had to hurry or his dad would show up unsummoned and ruin everything. He had to find just the right place…and that was when he spotted the run-down casino, with an overflowing parking lot and no noticeable security.

He walked down the lot as if he were headed to his own vehicle, until he came upon a black Honda Civic that looked like it could be about 15 years old. "Perfect," he said to himself, pulling out the Slim Jim he kept in his jacket pocket since he and Dad only had the one car. They really needed to do something about that.

He quickly popped the lock, looking around casually as he slipped inside and began to work on the wires to start the car. It roared to life easily and Dean found himself headed out of town, turning onto I-80 instead of continuing on to the house like his little voice inside his head warned him he should do.

He kept driving.

Past the homes.

Past the businesses.

Past the dusty lots, deeper into the desert, until it was too late to turn back without an inquisition. May as well see it through.

Dean drove alone with his thoughts and fears about what was ahead of him, the music ever louder as his little inner voice got ever smaller with the taunts about what was behind him. It was a 5-hour drive to Stanford and the music choices sucked. He missed his tunes.

He clicked off the radio and thought of what was ahead. He wouldn't be giving Sam any warning. There would be no calls or texts to alert Sam to his intent. He would face him and find out why Sam was dodging his attempts to stay in touch. Did Sam even realize that when he left Dad, he also left Dean? Sam had been so angry about the way Dad had responded to his college plans that he just took off, taking with him the few possessions he had already packed before confronting their Dad for the last time. He had just walked out, and never looked back.

Sam was always going to go to college. That much was clear. Maybe Sam had thought he could have some kind of reasonable discussion with their dad about his plans. Maybe he thought Dad would cave once he saw how serious Sam was about his future. But Dean knew Sam was serious. Dean was proud of his baby brother and would have thrown him a party if that had been the Winchester way.

The Winchester way was to crap all over what any individual wanted, for the good of the mission. To hell with your reasonable request to attain a higher education that could be of use in future hunts. Who cares if you want to be normal – whatever that meant – and have a place you could actually call home, if only for four years. That was what Dean had heard as a kid, every time his dad refused to respond to his 7-year-old dreams to become a fireman. Then a musician. And a mechanic. Dean had learned a long time ago to bury his dreams where monsters couldn't get at them and tear them apart. He didn't want to feel his dad's angst every time Dean talked about what they used to have with Mom; what he wanted to have again with just the three of them, if only Dad would stick around long enough. Dean had learned the proper robotic responses to his dad's commands while Sam had chosen to run away.

It was time now to see what was so important that Sam couldn't be bothered to let Dean live vicariously through his life anymore. Dean had a full tank of gas and he was too wired to need any rest even after spending way too much time checking out that clown museum that sparked this sudden adventure. Dean hadn't been this amped in weeks.

(~~~)

It was dark when he pulled up to Sam's last-known address. But not too late for the drunken co-eds who milled about the well-lit apartment complex. Dean backed into a space at the back of the lot, the streetlights not quite reaching into the shadows where the Civic easily hid in plain sight. He turned off the engine, sunk down in the seat and waited, wondering if he should get out to see if Sam was home or not. But he was already second-guessing his decision to come in the first place, so it was easier to stay put and berate his need to check in on his brother while warring with his need to let Sam have his space.

His cell phone intruded on his thoughts yet again, registering his dad's impatience. Dean decided once and for all to shut the phone off. He'd deal with Dad later. Or, more likely, Dad would deal with him. But he couldn't think about that now.

Dean folded his arms and sulked in the driver's seat, torn between going back to Dad and ripping himself from the car to hunt down his brother. He beat the steering wheel in frustration before realizing what he was doing. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, uh, little car," he apologized. "Didn't mean to hurt you. It's not your fault my dad is an ass and my brother is his clone."

Dean thread his fingers through his short hair. "Damn it!" He hated being so fucking vulnerable, but that was exactly what he was right now. Feeling as helpless as he had when his world burned down 20 years ago.

He grabbed his phone, pushed the 2 and stopped, his thumb hovering over the call button. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and bit his lip. Breathing out, he looked again, glancing up at the figures walking on the sidewalk ahead of him. There were a couple of girls clinging to each other, one obviously stumbling while the other was holding her up, rummaging through her purse, probably for keys, Dean guessed. He hoped she wasn't going to be driving if she was anywhere near as sloshed as her friend.

She dropped the keys and Dean watched as she pumped her fist in agitation. She steadied her friend and started to go down when she was stopped by a guy, who picked them up for her. Dean narrowed his eyes, focusing on the form that was slightly hidden by the stumbling pair who was bending down to retrieve the keys.

The guy stood, clearly towering over the girls, and Dean sat back as the girls stepped back before their hero. The sober girl was talking to the guy. She moved around enough for Dean to see she was smiling – at Sam. She tucked her hair behind her ear as she nodded. Sam smiled in response, pointing at one of the apartments up the stairs. The girls must have been heading that way and Dean watched as Sam took the girl's friend, lifting her easily into his arms as the friend stepped back. She turned to walk up the stairs, looking back occasionally to check on the pair following her.

The girl in Sam's arms nonchalantly wrapped her arms around his neck, laying her head on his shoulder, but didn't seem to be very aware of more than that. The friend opened the apartment door, and she and Sam stepped inside.

Light suddenly spilled out onto the landing and Dean leaned onto the steering wheel, watching for movements. He didn't wait long. Sam stepped back out, nodding to the friend as she filled the doorway, both hands holding onto the doorjambs. Sam stepped back another step while she pushed slightly out of the door toward him, her head falling flirtatiously to the side. Sam gave her a small wave and nod, and turned to head back to the stairs.

Sam jammed his hands in his pockets, which he sometimes did when he was trying to make himself a little less conspicuous. Dean smirked as he watched the girl watch Sam descend the stairs, then slowly close the door when Sam reached the sidewalk, not looking back.

"Sammy." Dean could feel a wave of relief wash over him. Sam was ok. He looked good. He looked happy even. Dean nodded his quiet acceptance of this and watched longer as Sam continued down the sidewalk. Dean knew he couldn't simply follow him in the stolen car, so he rubbed his neck considering his options. There weren't any. He'd have to follow on foot. "Shit," he hissed and reached for the handle, bracing his hand as he carefully pushed the door open, watching Sam for any signs of awareness to his presence. Sam kept walking. He was at the further end of the complex so it would only be a minute before he was out of the area and onto the street leading out to the town.

Dean climbed out carefully, taking off his jacket and tossing it on the seat. He braced his hand on the door again to carefully shut it this time, then stood straight, looking around the parking lot. No one else was around at the moment. He ducked a bit, sidestepping over to the sidewalk, wishing he'd thought to carry sneakers for times like this. But he was pretty far behind Sam right now so he should be alright.

Dean ducked behind the stairs leading up to 2nd floor apartments. He trained his eyes on Sam again. Sam still had his hands in his pockets, his stride quick like he had somewhere to be. Dean stepped out to follow him as many paces behind as he thought it would take to keep Sam from noticing, which would be tough. He had trained Sam himself to follow undetected, but to also notice when being followed. Dean was pretty sure he'd be able to tell if Sam caught on so he continued, ducking into cover whenever he could. Sam was nearing the end of the lot and the street out into the greater public would make it a little easier for Dean to follow a little more in the open.

Once Sam reached the street, he stopped, shoulders straightening a bit. He turned his head, listening. Dean stepped under another set of stairs as he watched, Sam's profile seeming to tighten a bit as he stood. The light from the streetlight bathed him in an orange glow. Dean saw a couple of college guys behind him now and he stepped further into the shadows, watching them talking and pushing each other animatedly, walking past Dean without noticing him. They reached Sam, who had turned halfway around now, hands coming out of his pockets while he watched the guys approach and pass him without acknowledgement.

Sam seemed to relax a bit. He gave them a quick smile before looking back from where they came, tucking his hair behind his ears. He lingered there a bit, looking further down the parking lot. Twisting his mouth, Sam shook his head as if confirming that his imagination was at work. He shoved his hands back in his pockets, looking both ways before jogging lightly across the street.

Dean stepped quickly to the spot where Sam last stood, but just to the left of the street spotlight. He watched Sam go up to a set of doors, _Riley's Pub_, and pull the handle. Sam held the door as a couple emerged laughing. He smiled at them, then looked around himself once more before stepping inside.

Dean ran up to the doors, not wanting to lose Sam. He was grateful Sam was going inside such a busy place.

The pub was packed with people standing around talking, sitting at the bar or at the small tables that dotted the center of the floor. Dean stayed back in the doorway, just behind a couple of guys in football jerseys who were loudly debating the last game Stanford had played against some yet unnamed rival. Dean tucked his head slightly trying not to be noticed by anyone. He squinted, looking around for what surely would be the tallest guy in the room, but somehow Sam had managed to vanish. Dean sucked in a breath, wondering if Sam might have noticed him after all. He stepped around the football guys and tucked himself into the little corner created by the short foyer when he had entered the pub. There were a couple of tables there in front of the main window and Dean lightly bumped a girl who was clinking glasses with her friends.

"Sorry," he mumbled, barely looking at her while he pressed himself tighter against the wall. He glanced around the room in search of the familiar mop of hair.

The girl looked annoyed at first as she turned to see who was invading her personal space. Then she smiled. She noticed the taut arms that were crossed, the man looking so seriously into the crowd. "Don't be sorry," she replied, giving Dean her full attention now as she turned her back to her table. "Accidents happen. But maybe this could be a happy accident?"

Dean glanced over at her now. He raised his chin, noticing the mane of dark hair that enveloped a heart-shaped face, brown eyes staring at him in anticipation. He shuddered lightly at the thought of what he'd do with those rose-red lips, then closed his eyes, dismissing the thought.

"Yeah, uh, not tonight sweetheart. Looking for someone." He looked back into the crowd and noticed Sam, who stood smiling at a low table on the side, before he stooped to slide into the booth. The high backs of the bench seats made it impossible for Dean to see who he was smiling at or even much more than the top of Sam's head now.

"If you can't find them, maybe I will do?" The dark-haired girl had reached over to stroke his arm, which pulled Dean out of his trance. He dropped his arms and stood straight again to get closer to Sam.

He glanced back at the flirty girl. "Normally, but tonight I'm looking for him," he said pointing in Sam's direction, not caring if she got the wrong impression. The girl tossed her hair, looking at where he pointed. Sam was already seated, so all she could see was another hulking football player who was standing with some loud guys chugging beers.

She raised her eyebrows watching Dean head in that direction. He didn't hear her as she snorted, "Figures," then went back to her friends.

There was an empty seat right behind Sam and Dean slid in before he noticed the guy already seated on the other side.

"Dude? What the hell?" the shocked guy asked.

"Shhhh," Dean whispered. He noticed the guy was relatively good looking, you know, for a guy. Cropped brown hair, light green eyes. He even looked like he might work out a little. Dean leaned in to share the secret he was making up as he went along. "I saw that girl over there eyeing you, dude," he whispered, looking around conspiratorially. He nodded to the dark-haired girl he'd just left in the corner and the guy's eyes went wide as he jerked around to see whom Dean was referring to.

"Uh, uh, uh, dude! Not so obvious!"

The guy sat back and nodded. "But, uh," he whispered back. "I'm waiting for someone."

"Your girlfriend?"

"Uh, no, she's a blind date. My buddies set us up…"

"Ohhh, dude," Dean whispered, shaking his head. "You sure you want to go for the mystery behind door number two when there's a sure thing right over there?"

"But she's beautiful, man," the guy responded a little loudly this time, leaning forward, both hands palming the table now.

"Shhh," Dean replied, pressing his own hands downward now to silence the guy.

"Oh, sorry," he whispered back. "Here," he said, reaching into his pocket. "Look." He shoved his phone in front of Dean, who took it to see a picture there. A laughing blonde stared back at him, her arm around the necks of two guys who were also laughing.

"Who are the dudes she's hanging on?"

"That guy on the left is my friend, Joey. He's hooking us up. And that other guy is his brother."

"Uh huh," Dean replied, rolling his eyes as he handed back the phone. "She's doing them."

"What?!" the guy hissed.

"Man, look, I can read women. That look in her eyes says, 'We're getting down tonight.' And your friend is probably looking for someone new to join their party." He thought a moment. "Or she is."

The guy blushed, looking down at the table and fidgeting with his phone. He sucked his teeth. "No way."

"Look," Dean said, looking to move this along now. "That chick over there? She's a sure thing _tonight_. That chick there?" he continued, pointing to the phone, "She's a sure thing _later_. You can have them both, Romeo. Go for it!"

The guy sat back, considering Dean's words. Dean clasped his hands waiting, not taking his eyes off the horny college kid. He knew he was quietly convincing him that what he said was true.

The guy nodded and stood, looking back at Dean briefly. Dean shooed him away. The guy shook his hands a bit to loosen up and headed toward the table of the dark-haired girl. Dean leaned over to make sure he went, catching the eye of the girl as she laughed again then noticed him, a quizzical look on her face. Dean wouldn't do more than look her way, watching the guy approach her.

The girl turned as the college guy stepped slightly behind her to draw her away from her table. Dean saw he was tall and definitely looked like he took care of himself, but that shy thing he had going on might kill his whole plan unless he took control of the situation. But Dean smiled. He saw there was no need to worry. The girl was in full control. She smiled flirtatiously at Dean again, who did not smile back, then she glanced at Dean while the guy spoke to her. She seemed to want Dean to see she was giving this guy what she would have given him.

Dean snorted and sat back, tilting his chin at her as if to say she was too easy and that guy could have her. He rolled his eyes, but she was looking full on at the guy now, finally noticing he was a prize all on his own.

Dean was then able to slide further down the bench seat, pressing back hoping to overhear whatever was going on at the table behind him. A waitress in a short black skirt and button-down white blouse, unbuttoned just a tad too far, exposing her green-laced bra, stepped up looking bored. "What'll it be?"

"What?" Dean asked distracted.

"Drink? You can't sit here holding a booth if you're not going to order anything."

"Beer," he replied, annoyed now by the presence of yet another person. "Keep 'em coming. Waiting for someone," he replied as quickly and quietly as he could.

"Uh huh," the bored waitress said, turning on her matching green heels to head back toward the bar.

Dean pressed back again.

"Seriously, Sam?" Dean heard a light female voice. "Really?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. "I think we should, you know? It's been what? A year now?"

Dean heard the girl chuckle. "Is that before or after you were pining for me?"

"Pining?" Sam squeaked. "I wasn't pining for you."

"Yeah, right, Sam Winchester. You think I didn't see you waiting for me outside my class? When your class wasn't even in that building?"

Dean could imagine the shy smile on his brother's face. He didn't give himself easily to girls. This one was clearly important. He wondered if it was the same blonde he had seen before. Sam said it had been a year. Had to be her, right?

"Yeah, well, I got lost," Sam clearly lied.

The girl's laugh was full of something. Dean could tell just from the sound that she liked Sam back.

"Lost in my eyes," the girl teased.

"And other parts," Sam finished.

There was silence for a bit, just as the waitress had returned with his beer. "Here you go," she said sighing. Dean nodded so Sam wouldn't hear him.

"So yeah," Sam continued. "I think we should move in together."

The girl gave a huff. "That's no small step, Sam. Are you sure? I know you like your space."'

"I like you in my space." Dean rolled his eyes at the cheesy line that he knew was totally Sam being sincere. He could imagine the smile that must have elicited.

"I like you in my space too," the girl said a little lower now. Dean smiled and nodded at the sexy double entendre. He liked this girl.

Sam chuckled and Dean could hear them briefly kiss.

Sam whispered now. "Move in with me, Jess. I'm tired of being alone."

Dean narrowed his eyes. _You were never alone, Sam._

There was silence again. "OK," Dean heard. "I will move in with you, Sam." Dean heard some movement. The girl laughed a little and made a sound in her throat. Dean guessed they were hugging. Another brief kiss.

"Really, Jess? That's great!" Sam was clearly happy now. "When?"

"Um, I guess whenever you want, big boy!"

"We have break next week, so maybe then?' Sam asked.

"Uh, gee, I guess so, but Sam," Jess asked, "you don't want to maybe go home? See your family?"

Dean felt the silence this time and it was a long one.

"I'm sorry," he heard Jess whisper. "I...I didn't mean…"

"No," Sam replied quickly. "It's ok, Jess. Really. I just…" Dean waited, straining to hear. "I'm just not on good terms with my family right now."

"Still?" Jess asked. "I thought you were talking to your brother…"

"Yeah, uh, I was. I am. I mean, it's been a little while, but he's, uh, got a lot going on and I have school and you and…"

"Sam Winchester! Don't you dare use me as an excuse!"

"No! No, of course not. I'm just not ready, Jess, ok?"

"Did you and your brother have a fight like you and your dad did?" Jess asked quietly.

"Not exactly," Sam replied. Dean balled his fists. What the hell was Sam saying? They didn't have a fight. They had nothing. One moment Dean was included in his life and the next he wasn't.

"It's just too hard right now, Jess. I can't talk to my brother without my dad coming up and he tries, you know? He tries to be this neutral entity, but I know this is hard on him too, not taking sides. I just…" Sam stalled. Dean's fists loosened as he listened. "I just don't want to keep putting him in the middle or feeling this guilt and anger and all this…this stuff when we talk. I don't know, Jess. Maybe…," Sam exhaled and was quiet again.

"Maybe what, Sam?" Jess asked quietly.

"Maybe it's just better if we don't speak for awhile," Sam whispered. Dean rested his head on the back of the seat, closing his eyes. He let himself feel the stab of those words just a little.

"Dean should just go on with Dad and I'll go on with my life." Sam seemed to shift in the seat. "I have you now, Jess. That's all I need."

Dean breathed out, bringing the beer to his lips for one sip. He slipped quietly from the booth, just as the waitress was coming back. He stopped, fished a $20 from his pocket and laid it on her tray. The waitress' eyes went wide. "Thanks," she said in amazement.

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded, walking quickly to the door and not looking back. He had what he needed. And now he needed to go home.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **Not my boys nor my show. I just like playing with them in my head. That sounded weird.**  
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**Author's Notes/Warning: **This was almost literally finished in the 11th hour - wait. Maybe that's more like the 23rd hour - but finished it is; this chapter that is. We're almost there and I thank you for hanging in as long as you have.

**John's POV - Chapter 5**

The house was empty when he got home – again. It was starting to feel like when he first came back from the weekend of debt collecting expecting to find Dean waiting for him. Except this time, the place didn't even look dumped on. It looked just like it did when he and Dean left that morning to talk to Melissa Carey.

John walked through the house, then went outside to walk the perimeter. There was no indication that Dean had even returned from when John had dropped him off at the museum. "So what is the deal?" John asked himself.

He went back into the house to check Dean's room again, hoping for some sign as to his state of mind. But it wasn't forthcoming. He checked his phone to make sure he hadn't somehow put it on silent and missed Dean's call. But it yielded no information regarding Dean's whereabouts.

It was still daylight. Dean could have found some trail that he decided to follow. John wandered to the sofa as he thought about what had happened that day and what to do. Victor and his haunting were too similar to the killings to be mere coincidence. There were no coincidences in his line of work.

John plopped down on the sofa and reached with a lazy hand to pull the computer to his lap. He would need to look a little more into Victor's background, that was for certain. Then he and Dean could stake out the next house on that list.

As the laptop powered up, he checked his watch. Where are you, boy?

(~~~)

The day had turned into evening and still no Dean. John's curiosity had curdled into anger mixed with anxiety. Phone calls went to voicemail and John refused to sit and wait any longer. He had to make sure he knew which way to feel before committing to a warpath – worried or pissed. He checked his watch once again. It was just after 6. Early enough?, he wondered. He had to try. Last-known whereabouts? The museum.

John grabbed his keys, musing about his son's potential irresponsibility and the mystery around Victor and his demons. Hustling to the car, he was determined to put an end to whatever was wiping out Reno residents and bring his son back – all the way back.

(~~~)

Reno's after-work traffic was the sort where one couldn't necessarily speed to one's destination, but it wasn't stop-and-go either. John got to the museum in about 20 minutes and pulled up just as a lanky young man was locking up.

"Hey!" he called, before the car came to a full stop. The young man didn't notice. John put a hard stop to the vehicle, forcing open the door as he spoke. "Hey! Hey there!"

"Sorry! We're closed," came the reply. The young man continued to lock the door. "I'm sure your burning clown questions can wait until the morning."

"Hey! I just need to ask you a quick question."

"I said I'm sorry –" The keys clattered on the pavement as the young man found himself with his back pressed against the door, face to face with bearded fury.

"I said I have a quick question," John insisted.

"Uh, loo…look, man, I don't know –"

"Earlier. Today. Young agent come to see you?"

"Wha...what? Agent?"

John's arm shook against the man's collarbone as he pressed tighter. "Slightly shorter than me. Dark blond. Green eyes. Slightly juvenile attitude."

"Oh, oh yeah. He came in. Asking a bunch of questions about homicidal clowns and weird legends."

"Did you notice when he left?"

"Man, that was hours ago!"

"Did you notice where he went?"

"Sorry, no. I went to the back room when he was on his way out. Why? Is he missing? He didn't seem to be in any danger. Came out of left field asking about coulrophobia."

"Cole-ro-what?"

"Fear of clowns. He seemed to have an interest in that too."

John stepped back, lowering his restraint as he continued to watch the man.

"I don't know where he went, but could have used him not long after though."

"Why?"

"Well, some guy came in to use our phone. Reported his car stolen. Too bad your agent wasn't here then."

John's temper began to rise as the realization dawned on him. "He's FBI, not a cop." John stepped back as he decided there was no reason to worry – yet. "Thanks for your help, uh…"

"Robert."

"Yeah, thanks Rob."

"Robert!" the man called as John rounded the Impala to head back to the house and wait.

(~~~)

He was having flashbacks to when his boys were teenagers; him coming home unexpectedly to an empty house because they thought he'd be gone longer. Like the monsters he trained them to fight, he would lie in wait in the dark to catch them sneaking in past the curfew he insisted they obey, even in his absence. On more than one occasion he had ended up catching them. On most of those occasions he punished them, the severity of it depending on the state in which they returned home, as well as the lateness of the hour. By those standards, Dean should be expecting to not be able to sit for a day or so, due to the beat-down he was developing with each passing second.

(~~~)

It was, once again, a new day, despite the darkness outside. Once again, John was left to simmer as he watched for his errant hunting partner. Sleep was threatening to derail his anger, but he was determined to get his boy straight first, so they could focus on this hunt.

John rose from the sofa, where he had sat seething, to scrounge up another cup of coffee, when he heard the sound of a motor dying, followed by the barely audible sound of a closing car door.

John froze in his tracks as he turned his head to listen if the driver was headed toward him or moving away. He didn't have to wait long to hear the thump of footsteps on the porch and with that he turned fully and stalked to the door, snatching it open just as Dean stepped through.

"What the hell!" Dean gasped.

"Exactly! What the hell and where the hell!"

"Dad! Why are you hiding in the dark, man!"

"Where have you been, Dean? Why didn't you answer my calls? I dropped you off yesterday!"

"What?"

"It's after 2 a.m.!"

"What? Do I have a curfew now? I'm 24, dude!"

"And that's as old as you get after tonight!"

John yanked Dean further inside the house, shoving him in the direction of the bedrooms as they turned from the front door.

"I called you repeatedly! You were supposed to tell me when you were done, so I could get you. And if you couldn't wait, you were to meet me back here to run down this hunt. That was the plan!"

"I know! I know!" Dean snatched his arm from John, stepping out of his grip. "I went to the museum, ok? I talked to the guy."

"Yeah, that much I know!"

"You checked up one me?"

"Dean! It's after TWO A.M.!"

Dean nodded, stepping back further as he took off his jacket and hung it on the chair. "I…I just needed a minute."

"You had 8 hours, boy!"

"I know! I'm sorry, ok?"

"Do you really think –"

"Dad! You're pissed. I get it. I get it. And I…I just needed some time."

John straightened as he looked at his tired son. He wouldn't normally relent so easily. But he had decided to put his rage on the back burner in favor of other priorities.

"We sort out this case, Dean. You tell me everything you know and we make a plan. We follow that plan, we kill whatever the hell it is and then I deal with you."  
>"Yes, sir."<p>

John calmed enough to finally go get the cup of coffee he'd originally sought. Holding the cup in both hands, he sat at the kitchen table. "Talk."

(~~~)

"I heard a car outside," John remembered.

"Oh, uh, yeah. I needed to clear my head so I went for a drive."

"Uh huh."

"Um, out of town."

"What?" John said in a low voice.

"I, you know, borrowed a car from a casino in town, but I left it there and…took another one to come back."

John shook his head. "Later, Dean." He sipped his cooling coffee. He and Dean had just spent about 45 minutes informing each other of the museum and the lack of a homicidal clown suspect. John told Dean about Victor and his haunting.

"Do you think he somehow brought something to life," Dean mused.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"How do you fight a figment of the imagination? If it's a figment."

"You stop the imaginer," John said coldly.

"Figment," Dean snorted. "His figment is made of bright pigments. Get it?" Dean grinned.

John shook his head, rising to toss the now-cold coffee into the sink.

"Got it. Don't want it."

He placed the cup in the sink and turned back to Dean, leaning against the sink. "Here's what we're going to do. I am going to follow Victor tomorrow. You are going to watch the house of the potential next victim."

"Dad, come on. Baby-sitting duty?"

"Dean, right now I can't trust you to be where I expect you to be, but we also don't have time to waste. I will be mad, Dean. I am mad. But it will be better for both of us, faster, if we each take a part. So you get the super easy part. You can sit there and wallow in whatever you have going on while you watch that house on Poplar Street. But you stay there and you do your job, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

(~~~)

Trusting that Dean would do his part that day – watch the house until John arrived that evening – John left early to get to Victor's house before he left for the day. He had followed him home the day before, so he knew how long it would take to get there.

As he walked to the Impala, he noticed the car that Dean must have "liberated" from somewhere. Black Explorer. That's not obvious at all, Dean. He'd have to make sure he ditched the truck after the stakeout. But one thing for was sure – this hunt was showing him how much they needed two vehicles now.

Re-focused on the hunt during his drive to Victor's, John finally reached Victor's street. He slowed to find a safe place to park and wait. He knew Victor's office hours were 9 to 7, and since he was the boss, John assumed he'd be there before everyone else. He allowed 2 extra hours of time and saw he was correct when he noticed the shadow walking past closed curtains on the second floor of the house.

It wasn't too long of a wait before the garage door opened and the familiar car pulled out slowly, stopping at the end of the driveway before turning in the opposite direction of the business.

John followed at a distance and watched as Victor made pit stops at a diner, presumably for breakfast. Then he went to a drug store where he took longer than John would have thought he would. When he finally came out, he noticed the bag in Victor's hand looked to be from the pharmacy.

Victor got into his car and sat there. John sat up to squint. "What are you doing, Victor," he wondered aloud. Victor shook his head, then covered his face continuing to shake his head as if he were talking to someone. John watched puzzled. He thought maybe Victor was on his cell again. Maybe he had one of those headphones or something, but John couldn't see it.

Victor drew his hands down and sat up. John could see him lean forward as if to start the car, so he hurried to start his as well. Victor pulled out of the lot, John at a safe distance behind him.

John followed Victor for about 15 minutes before finally pulling into the one-story parking garage of a building. John drove past to see if the garage had any other exits. Seeing none, he turned around and parked down the street to see what would happen next.

Victor emerged from the garage and went into the building. John got out of the car to see what he could determine. Walking purposely toward the building, he noticed a small sign with a medical symbol. The building seemed to have a lobby, so he went inside. There was a board immediately inside the door and John read the names. All doctors of one kind or another. "Ah, doctor's appointment. OK, Victor," he said to himself. "I can wait."

John noted the time and headed back to the Impala to wait, noticing a coffee shop across the street as he walked. It was perfect. Big window, unobstructed view. He headed over to get some much-needed coffee – and a quick pee if he dared - and wait.

It was about an hour later when Victor showed again. John jerked after the long wait and moved quickly to get to his car before Victor left the garage. He hopped in, started the car and watched as Victor drove to the street, looked both ways, then turned to drive past John.

John quickly ducked behind the newspaper he was reading for cover before Victor could see him. He watched Victor drive further away before jumping into the Impala and making a U-turn to follow. There were more errands and it didn't seem Victor would be going to work today.

"Alright, Victor. You're one busy boy."

John soon found himself back in front of Victor's house. "That it, Vic? That all ya got?" John was feeling somewhat relieved that he could scratch Victor off his list, though he'd give it some time before he officially did. It wasn't even noon yet, so he decided to wait a little longer first. If there was something to be found here, you had to give it at least a full day before calling it quits. So John sunk down in this carseat and watched the traffic and pedestrians go by. He wished he had had time to get another cup of coffee to go.

Four long hours passed before Victor's garage opened once again.

"Here we go," John said.

The garage door opened fully and it was a moment before a dark blue van pulled out. It was about as nondescript as you could get, with no windows beyond the 3 in the front. "What the hell?" John thought. With no sign on the side, he assumed the van was not for work. He was also sure he hadn't seen anyone else go in or out of Victor's home and he was also pretty sure he lived alone. It was after 4 now and surely Victor wouldn't be going to work now, John thought. If in fact it was Victor.

The van stopped at the end of the drive and John could clearly see it was him. Victor looked stonefacedly out onto the street before turning away from John and driving off.

John looked at the house once more, as if he expected to see someone else, but it was still. So he pulled off after Victor, following him through the city. Victor turned into the dusty lot of a bar. "Kinda early, ain't it, Victor?" Then John snorted as he realized he'd had some early drinking hours himself from time to time.

Victor hopped out of the car and took long strides to the bar. He walked with a purpose that he hadn't shown all day and John wondered if he was meeting someone. But it was another long wait before Victor returned, and by then it was dusk.

As far as suspects went, Victor was certainly on the less interesting side. Or so John though before he watched Victor hop into the back of his van and close the door.

John sat up, peering into the darkening space before him to see if he could detect anything. The van was still for a short while before John could see movement in the front seat. It was Victor climbing into the seat and starting the old van. He drove carefully over the gravel lot and John gave him distance before starting up after him.

"Where to now, Victor, in your undercover van," John asked, as if talking to an invisible companion.

The van moved carefully through the streets, driving the limit in all the neighborhoods that they went through. Before long, Victor was making turn after turn down residential streets. Clearly he was headed somewhere and John perked up.

Victor pulled up to the side of a home on a corner lot and John drove past to park on the perpendicular street. He turned to face in Victor's direction, searching out street signs as he did.

Rose and Poplar.

Wait a minute, John thought. He snatched at the car door handle to get out, quietly closed it, and quickly dashed across the street, still out of Victor's sight. He noticed that Victor was not inside the van and ran across the street to find the address of the house.

25 Poplar. It was the home he had sent Dean to watch. He ran in front of the high bushes that lined the home's front yard. Squatting at the end of the row, he looked around for the car Dean had been driving that morning. These homes were large enough for their owners to park on their own property, so there were not too many cars on the street.

John searched up and down, but did not see Dean's car. He squatted in the bushes and pulled out his cell to quickly dial Dean. It went straight to voicemail.

"Damn it to hell, boy!" he whispered harshly.

Snapping the phone closed and shoving it back into the pocket of his jeans, John turned back to the house. He saw a light on in the first-floor window and curtains being closed. It was a young woman, college-age maybe; possibly the house sitter. John ducked further and snuck as quietly as he could to the window.

He could barely see inside since the girl had covered the window, so he skulked to the side of the home in hopes of getting more visual access in the back. When he got to the corner, he darted quickly back to the side of the house, seeing someone already standing there.

It was Victor. In a colorful suit, donning a rainbow wig.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **Not my show. Not my boys. I wish they were. But alas, no one offered to give them to me.**  
><strong>

**Author's Notes/Warning:** Ok, so yeah, this chapter is longer then ever, but I suspect you'll be ok with it. Enjoy!

**Dean's POV - Chapter 5.5**

Leaving Stanford, Dean could do nothing but ruminate about what he had seen. What he had heard. What he had felt after hearing Sam. Sam thought he was doing him some sort of favor? By cutting him off? Practically disowning him?

"Fuck you, Sam," he cursed. He had found himself speeding through the streets of Stanford, just to get the hell out of there and back to the "normalcy" of his obsessed father. He realized he'd better slow down, though. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over by the police and to have it blow up into some big thing that got him arrested and alerted Sam to his presence. With the way he was feeling, he'd surely get locked up for resisting arrest, then Sam would disown him for sure.

He drove through residential streets until he was in a more commercial zone and started to see signs for I-280 N – the road toward home – or what was passing for home this month. Once he hit the highway, he sped up. It was still kinda early, about 10 p.m., but he should be able to fly under police radar in a dark car like this. He remembered he had actually taken the car on his way out of Reno. Normally he and his dad would not return to the scene of the crime, so maybe ditching the car here in another state and picking up a new one was in order.

Dean continued driving, looking for the best opportunity. Then he spotted the sign off the highway – _Cal's Used Cars_. "Ah, hey Cal," he purred at the sign, merging to exit the highway. "Semi-mint condition Honda Civic here. Wanna trade? Yeah? Thanks!"

Dean pulled into the darkly lit lot. There were rows upon rows of all sorts of previously loved cars. He knew he'd need one that he could swap out for the Civic, leaving the car in the other vehicle's place, so he started in the back of the lot, furthest away from potentially prying eyes and ears.

There was a 1990 black Ford Explorer with tinted windows calling his name. It was actually kinda cute – for a Ford. She was no Baby, of course, but as long as he was stealing, he may as well steal as much horsepower as he could.

He pulled the Civic in front of the cars that were next to the Explorer, got out and popped its lock with his ever-present jimmy. He fiddled under its dash until he got it started. Looking around, he didn't see anyone stirring, so he quickly pulled the vehicle out of its spot, leaving it running while he parked. He hopped out again and ran back to the Civic to move it to its new home. He quickly wiped the steering-wheel, indicator and door handles free from finger prints with his sleeve. All set.

The Explorer was actually quite quiet and Dean appreciated that as he went back to his musings about Sam and his recent revelations, hitting the highway back toward Reno.

(~~~)

It was too late for Dean to worry about hiding the car when he got home. He parked in front of the house and checked the car's clock. After 2 a.m. If Dad hadn't missed him before, he surely would have by now. And with this hunt being top priority, Dad would also most likely be steaming and assuming Dean hadn't done his job.

Dean leaned over to look at the windows of the house. All dark. Then he glanced over at the driveway and saw Baby. Yep. Dad was home. And what were the chances he was sleeping? Dean knew he was an adult. Dad knew it too, but didn't hesitate to remind him who was boss when he felt like it. So if Dean was lucky, he would just get a verbal dressing-down, then he could hit the sack. He had been lucky up to this point. He knew he had crossed the same line repeatedly, but he couldn't bring himself to care. What he needed to do was shake himself out of the funk he was in. He wasn't sure how, but he couldn't let Sam reduce him to a whiny girl.

"You want me to go on with my own life, Sam? No problem. I can do that."

Dean got out of the truck, but thought it best to at least try not to announce his arrival, just in case Dad was asleep. He closed the heavy door as quietly as he could and headed up the walk. Ascending the porch steps, there was nothing he could do to maintain the quiet short of tip-toeing. But he wasn't going to act ashamed of needing this time away to get things straight.

He'd walk in there and slip as silently as he could –-

Before he could get a firm grip on the door handle, Dean felt it nearly being ripped from his hand as the door swung open with more force than he had applied.

"What the hell!" Dean gasped. He shook his hand from the burning the snatched door handle had imprinted upon it.

"Exactly! What the hell and where the hell!" John was huffing – again. Dean was only partly startled to see it was him who had opened the door before Dean could get a hold of it.

"Dad! Why are you hiding in the dark, man!"

"Where have you been, Dean? Why didn't you answer my calls? I dropped you off _yesterday_!"

Yesterday? Dean was confused. "What?"

"It's after 2 a.m.!"

Oh yeah, Dean remembered, but he decided to see what playing the adult card would get him. Sometimes Dad appreciated a show of strength. "What? Do I have a curfew now? I'm 24, dude!"

From the look on John's face, Dean assumed this would not be one of those times. "And that's as old as you get after tonight!"

As John yanked him away from the front door, Dean braced himself for whatever might come next. Unfortunately, he couldn't always be sure what that would be. A reminder about cell phone etiquette? The lateness of the hour? Not going AWOL during an important mission? None of these put as elegantly as that, of course.

John was pissed. Dean knew it. What surprised him was how John held back. He knew the Law of Winchester. There were only so many warnings and alternate forms of distraction before the law was laid down. Dean had been given more stays of execution than he knew what to do with. For now it would be enough to finally do what they should have done hours ago – compare notes about their respective investigations – then…who knew. Dean would just enjoy the peace for as long as he could.

(~~~)

John had commanded that Dean stake out some house on Poplar Street. It was possibly the house-sitting job of the next victim, but all he could do was wait and see. John would follow the company's owner to see if he led anywhere. Dean knew it was going to be a long day sitting in one place. He also knew this was one of John's semi-punishments – not letting him do anything more interesting – and if he knew what was good for him, he would do just that – stay put.

Dean woke up the next day intending to stay put. He didn't need to wonder about Sam anymore. He had his answer. He could just move on until Sam decided he needed his brother again, or maybe Dean could just cut him off too.

He rubbed his eyes sleepily as he mulled over that option and walked through the small house. Dad was nowhere to be found. Checking the window, he saw the Impala was gone. "Huh. See ya, Dad."

Rubbing his hand down his face, Dean thought about the day ahead. "A long day of sitting around doing nothing requires a big breakfast," he decided. And that sounded like a call for a visit to the _Quick Time Diner_. Dean had been so busy stewing over Sam and chasing ass clowns, he almost forgot about his sexy distraction.

He checked the time. The diner would be open and Belinda would be working. All he needed was something to go. He wouldn't take that long.

Dean took the fastest shower possible and got dressed in record time. He gathered into a small duffle the supplies he thought he would need to get him through the day and headed out.

It was early yet. None of the victims had died in the morning and the house-sitter would probably not even be doing anything of interest right now anyway. He could spare a few minutes to say hello to a friend.

Remembering how long the walk was the first time he went, the drive over was a blur. The lot had a good amount of cars, which meant Belinda and her friend Theresa would be a little busy. Dean would stay at the counter so he wouldn't risk getting Belinda fired by taking up too much of her time shooting the breeze while sitting in her section.

The diner door brushed the bell above it, letting the staff know of a customer. Dean saw Belinda talking to a couple of truckers who were as smitten by her as Dean had been the first time he saw her. He shook his head as he threw a leg over an empty stool. Was that a pang of jealousy? _You are becoming a girl, Winchester. Get a grip!_

Theresa spotted him as soon as he hit the door and walked over when he landed at her counter.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, handsome? Ready to try a brunette now?"

"I couldn't handle it, Theresa."

Theresa snickered as she placed a coffee cup in front of him.

"There's only one way to find out, sugar." She poured fresh coffee into the cup. "Sugar?" she grinned, shaking the dish of packets in front of him.

"I'm good. I just wanted to get a sausage breakfast sandwich to go. Got a little job I've got to do."

"Oh, I've got a bigger job you can _do_, honey. Anytime."

"Hey! Get your own out-of-towner," Belinda piped up, smiling a bright smile at Dean. She looked at the kitchen where her boss was last seen, then leaned over to plant a quick peck on Dean's cheek.

"You here for the breakfast…" she asked waving at the counter where Theresa stood, "…or the dessert?" she finished putting one hand on her hip.

"Uhh, both?"

"Good answer," Belinda laughed. She walked around the counter and stood next to Theresa, leaning over to speak low to Dean while simultaneously using Theresa to shield her from the boss she had yet to locate.

"You know what time I get off, if you'd like a little playdate," she winked.  
>Dean smiled a genuine smile at the stunning blonde. A girl like her just didn't seem to belong in a place like this. What was it about her? He had seen many beautiful women in his life. He'd had more than his fair share of most of them. But Belinda was…radiant. Sweet and sexy at the same time. Her flawless skin glowed and Dean had to stop himself from reaching out to touch her.<p>

"You know you want to, Dean," she said.

"Huh?"

Belinda leaned in closer. "Touch me," she whispered. "You want to touch me, yes?"

"Uh, yes please." Dean sat back, clearing his throat to regain his composure. "Um, but not now, I'm afraid. Got a little job to do today and I'm not sure how long I'll be."

Belinda quirked her head as she considered what Dean said. "Does it have anything to do with..." Belinda looked around to see if anyone was listening. "…what we were talking about last time at the casino?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny that," Dean replied suavely.

Belinda leaned in closer. "I can't deny you make me wet at the sight of you."

If Dean didn't know better, he'd have thought he was blushing. What was it about this girl?

"It would be a crime to leave me in this state, Dean," Belinda continued.

"Yeah, you're right. But my dad? He's back and if I don't go do this job, I'll have greater charges to answer for. But, uh, I get conjugal visits. I'm sure we could work something out?"

"When do you get out?" Belinda asked, happy to play along.

"Not really sure. Can I call you?"

"You better."

Theresa brought Dean his sandwich all wrapped and ready. Her hand lingered on his as she passed him the bag. "You know sugar, two can play that game. Or three, maybe?"

"Oh, Theresa, don't tease." Dean winked at her, brushed Belinda's hand and walked out while he still had the power to do so. That girl would be the death of him if he wasn't careful. He glanced back and saw both women watching him walk away. He had never felt so objectified. He smiled. He loved it.

Hustling back to the car, Dean pulled out the address Dad had given him. He had a map of the town and had already mapped out the route last night to prove to Dad he was serious about doing what he was supposed to do.

He placed the bag on the passenger seat as he got the car started up again. After all, it wasn't Baby, so what did it matter if the seats got a little greasy? Pulling the map onto his lap, he drove through the town to the finer residential areas on the other side. He made more turns than in a maze, but finally found himself on Poplar Street. Now he just needed to find an inconspicuous place to park. In a neighborhood like this, it might be odd to be sitting like this and not getting out, which is why he always came prepared.

Driving a few blocks away and taking a couple of right-hand turns, Dean pulled over on a quiet-looking street. He opened the duffle and fished out two magnetic signs. Jumping out the truck, he looked around then slapped a "U.S. Census" sign on each door. Most folk had no clue when it was time to take the census or what happened in between, so he doubted anyone would question his presence.

He hopped back into the truck and made his way back to the house, finding the best spot he could afford to take without being too obvious. The truck's tinted windows gave him a little more anonymity than the Impala usually provided, not that he was complaining. He'd never complain about Baby. She was perfect.

Sinking down into the seat, Dean pulled the diner bag onto his lap, glanced over at the house to make sure nothing was happening, then checked the time. Damn. It wasn't even 9 a.m. He had a long wait in front of him.

(~~~)

The breakfast sandwich only lasted so long. The Busty Asian Beauties could only entertain so much. The radio in this town sucked, plus it drained the battery. It had been 3 hours already and Dean was starting to feel hungry and cranky. Sam came back to mind, his conversation with the mysterious girl replaying in Dean's head.

_Maybe it's just better if we don't speak for a while._

Dean should just go on with Dad and I'll go on with my life.

I have you now, Jess. That's all I need.

Dean leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He could picture Sam saying those very words with nary a look of remorse. But then again, why shouldn't he? He hadn't asked for this life. Neither of them had. Sammy hadn't wanted to be in on the hunts as often as Dad forced him. But he had the courage to say so. Dean had chosen not to rock the boat. Sammy deserved more than this. Of course he should go his own way. All the pain that had been brought on him when he was too young to even recognize it as such was bound to take its toll at some point. This is what happens when a boy doesn't get to keep his mother. Dean had had her for 4 years at least. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to give him something to hold on to, memories to keep her real for him for the rest of his life.

He had tried to make her real for Sam too, but he never had enough words to paint a truly accurate picture. So he tried to stand in for her instead. He tried to be for Sam everything Mom had been for him, especially when Dad was otherwise occupied. He wanted the best for Sammy forever, and college was the best choice. Dean? This life? Dad's mission? They weren't.

"You're right, Sammy. Of course you're right. You're a freaking genius." Dean nodded as he began to accept this new development in their relationship. "You should go on with your life. But I'll be here for you. I'll always be here for you."

Dean looked out the driver's window, swallowing in an effort to push the pain of it away, embracing the happiness he knew Sam must be feeling about his life away from them.

He closed his eyes a moment longer, trying to be ok with it all. A bang on the passenger window startled him out of the moment.

Dean leaned down to get a look at who was outside the truck. Could some cop finally be wondering what his business was in the area? Pushing the button to let the window down a little and leaning over a bit, he saw it wasn't a cop.

"Belinda?"

"Hi honey. Can I come in?"

Dean unlocked the door, gathering the items on the passenger seat and tossing some of them into the back seat. He moved the duffle to the floor.

"How did you…"

"…figure out where you were? I have a sixth sense like that."

Dean knitted his eyebrows in confusion.

"OK well I was in the neighborhood and I saw the truck. I recognized it from the diner parking lot."

"In the neighborhood? Belinda, you don't live in this neighborhood."

"No, but a girl can have friends, can't she?"

"You sure do have a lot of friends."

"You mean how does a working-class girl like me have so many friends with money?"

"No, I didn't mean…"

"It's ok. It's a legit question. Thing is, Deanie baby, I work because I want to, not because I have to." She winked at him, brushing golden strands from her face as she looked at him.

"Slummin' it?"

"No, I wouldn't put it that way. You just meet the most…interesting people in diners, you know?"

"People like me?"

"Hell yes, honey. You are the most interesting of all. All that lust and angst coming off you. I could practically taste it."

"I'm that obvious huh?"

"Well, it's not your fault." Belinda pursed her lips as she pondered him. "I seeeee…a troubled childhood. Maybe the family drama even continues?"

Dean raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"I see a man who doesn't know his own worth, always taking care of others, putting them before himself."

"Are you some kind of clairvoyant?" he asked her seriously and a tad suspiciously.

"Mercy, no!" she laughed. "It's just a gift, that's all. I guess you could say I read souls? I don't know. I've just always been really perceptive."

A charged energy permeated the air as they sat in silence looking at each other. Belinda smiled and ventured a finger out to stroke Dean's hand as it rested on his thigh.

"You know, I can help you forget about that weight for a little while. Maybe even longer, " she looked at him seductively, "if you want."

Dean bit his lip, struggling to remember what he was doing before this vision of perfection entered his car. He felt her warmth envelop him. His eyes fell to her finger softly stroking his hand; then they made their way up velvety arms to her neck. He now longed to lean over and plant the smallest of kisses from her ear to her collarbone and back again, making her squirm and gasp like he knew he could.

He licked his lips hungrily, and his eyes found their way down now, towards the little patch of skin showing just above the buttons of her blouse. But it just wasn't enough. He needed to touch her, to experience that gorgeous body with all of his senses. By now it was pretty obvious to see that Little Dean had come to life, but hey, they were a team – what was good for one, was damned good for the other.

Belinda shifted position, propping one luscious leg slightly on the seat and adjusting her skirt with her right hand, as she wrapped all the fingers of her left around his and guided him to her thigh, and the wet promise that awaited him just that little fraction higher up...

"Dean?"

He watched his hand as it started to stroke her thigh, making circles on her skin as he steadily moved further upward, knowing that his sweet reward was oh so close…

"Dean?" she repeated.

"Yeah?"

"Do you wanna get out of here? Your dad is out, right? Maybe we can go to your place? I really want you to take me in _your_ bed this time."

"Uh huh," Dean quickly croaked, as Little Dean bobbed in agreement.

(~~~)

He couldn't drive fast enough. Every thought at that moment was on the delicate hand that had found its way back to his thigh and was making its way up. Belinda leaned over to kiss his ear, her tongue playing with the nape of his neck. It was all Dean could do to concentrate so he didn't crash the truck before they played out every thought in their heads.

"Slow down," Belinda laughed. "Don't want to get a ticket and pour cold water all over this fire we've got burning, do you? "

"Do you really think mentioning a wet T-shirt contest is going to help me concentrate better?" Dean teased, as his mind instantly pictured her hard, eager nipples standing out through the cotton of her blouse, just waiting, waiting…

Belinda's grin grew and she tossed her hair over her shoulder as she leaned in further to turn Dean's head for the deepest kiss she could give in less than a few seconds. She pulled back, planting one more kiss on his puckered lips.

"Eyes on the road, babe," she chided as she sat back in her seat, one hand playing with the short hairs on the back of his soft neck.

"Damn it," he muttered.

"What?"

"Too many lights."

Belinda smiled again as she looked up. There were quite a few still to go, as she recalled. She watched the one before her as it turned from yellow to red as they approached. It switched to green just as they reached the intersection.

"Huh," Dean said. "That was good. More please," he said to the traffic lights.

They drove at the fastest speed they could without drawing attention to themselves and Dean moved one hand back to Belinda's thigh as he took advantage of the series of green lights he had been blessed with.

He felt his way under her skirt and Belinda leaned back, parting her legs a bit as she moved her skirt higher.

Dean felt the heat coming off Belinda and took a deep breath to maintain his focus on the road while simultaneously stroking Belinda's inner thigh, his finger exploring until it hit the crease at her pelvis.

Belinda breathed deep herself as she shifted slightly down in her seat to give Dean better access. He looked over at the pleased expression on her face, feeling encouraged by her silence.

Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he shifted over in the seat a little and Belinda rested her hand on his arm, squeezing her approval of his touch. His finger pressed and Belinda inhaled, releasing the breath as she relished his movements to get to the center of her. He felt for the side of her panties and began to push his way inside them.

"Dean," she breathed.

"Yeah?"

"Don't stop."

He chuckled. "You mean the car?"

"You know what I mean," she said tersely, not wanting any distractions.

They were close to the house now, but Dean needed to feel her for even a moment first. His finger played with the slight hair it found, lightly stroking as it searched for her entrance.

Belinda licked her lips and shifted a bit more as she spread her legs a little further for him.

Reaching her warm lips, Dean pulled his finger from the top as far down as he could go, pressing a little to feel the warm wetness inside them.

"Oh god," Belinda moaned.

"Wow. You weren't joking were you?" he asked. "You said you were wet for me."

"Umm hmm." Belinda couldn't form words as she felt a second finger slide deeper inside her, tickling the top of the lips between her thighs. She could already feel the heat starting to spread below her and she grabbed Dean's hand, effectively stopping him from going any further.

She exhaled, opening her eyes, taking a moment to regain her voice.

Dean looked over at her expectantly, licking his lips.

"Uh uh. Not yet. You are not gonna make me lose my shit in this car, Dean. Not before you take off every stitch of my clothes and put those lips all over me, you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," he grinned. They were pulling into the driveway of the house now and he could not park the car fast enough. Belinda leapt onto his lap and kissed him with all the passion that had been building ever since they had first laid eyes on each other in the diner and even after they had first been together. Her tongue pressed against his lips and found his own waiting to wrap itself around hers once she had pushed her way inside.

The steering wheel pressed into her back so she pressed closer to Dean, running a hand through his hair and squeezing the tight muscle of his upper arm as she leaned her head back inviting him to dive into her cleavage and take what he wanted.

His tongue found her neck as he kissed and sucked her, roaming down to the tops of her breasts, both hands now traveling up her thighs to squeeze her firm ass.

Undoing one button with his teeth, he dove further into her rising bosom to suck at the skin there. He pulled back to look her in the eye. She felt his hesitation and looked down.

"What?"

"I thought you wanted to wait. You know, to strip you and kiss you all over?"

"Oh Dean, honey, you will. You will. This is just the appetizer, baby, and it tastes better if you eat it warm."

Grinning back at her, he gracefully snaked one of his hands back up to unbutton her blouse further, his tongue just wasn't quick enough for the job, and Belinda shifted as far back as she could to unbutton his jeans and force the zipper out of the way.

She was wearing a bra that hooked in the front. _How convenient_, Dean grinned approvingly, instantly prying the hooks apart, freeing her breasts but for a moment before his hand claimed one, his lips the nipple of the other.

Belinda groaned as the pressure at her nipples forced her to lean back some more. She could distantly register that her legs weren't in the most comfortable position, but there was no will left in her to move before Dean had had his fill of tasting her nipples, sucking, pulling until they grew hard and ready.

"I'm not sure how much more I can take, Dean. I think I need you to fuck me. Now."

"Happy to oblige," he answered, reaching between his legs now to free his eager cock from the confines of his jeans as she rose up to pull the side of her panties away. They sought each other until she felt the hardness of him demanding to enter her.

Positioning herself over him, she slid slowly back down. She was warm and slick, and Little Dean slid in smoothly while Big Dean moaned with pleasure as he felt her tight vagina around him. It was Dean's turn to lean back now, eyes closed as he felt the warmth in his lap. The slick sound of him moving inside her as she began to ride him was overpowering. He slid his hands inside her panties and grabbed her ass, lifting and rocking as he squeezed her firm buttocks tight.

Shifting slightly, he found himself a little deeper inside her and she could not contain her moan. Gripping both of his arms tighter, she found the flexibility to spread her legs a little more as she pumped him harder, getting closer to him as he got deeper inside her.

Dean yearned now to lay her down and take control, plunging into her until she begged for mercy. But that was to come. For now, his body felt like jelly, unable to do anything but submit to her insistence to be satisfied as fast or as slow as she wanted. He would respond to whatever she did, his mind taking a siesta as the rest of him complied.

She bounced harder on his lap as the heat began to rise once again. She couldn't get close enough to him and yet she wanted to pull away to make that feeling last forever.

Dean gripped her back, leaning into her as he tried to wait. She could feel him trembling beneath her.

"It's. ok." she reassured, continuing her rhythm in between words. "Almost there. Almost there!"

Dean held on to her as he exploded within her, then he leaned back again to grip her thighs as she pulled the last of his essence from him, filling her body with the fireworks of warmth that radiated down to her fingertips.

Gasping, her forehead fell against his and together they breathed loudly until one of them had regained enough self-control to speak again.

Dean's awareness started to return as he looked down between them.

"Shit."

"What," she panted.

"I…I'm usually not this stupid, Belinda. I'm really sorry," he said dejectedly.

"Huh?" she asked, pulling back, her breath not quite even. "What is it?"

"Protection? I knew you weren't on the pill. I just don't know what the hell I was thinking…or not thinking. I never forget, B. I swear. I'm really sorry about that."

"Oh!" she laughed, grabbing his face and rubbing his cheeks. "Don't beat yourself up. After all, I started this. I used protection that first night because, well, you know. I didn't want you to think less of me."

"Never," he said in all seriousness.

"I can't get pregnant. Don't worry."

"You can't?" A look of concern crossed his face. Just because his childhood had been a landmine of issues didn't mean he thought childhood or children were all bad.

"It's ok. Really. I've made my peace with it. I have gifts to share with the world and it makes me happy. But right now, I am sharing my gifts with just you." She smiled and leaned down to plant a light kiss on his lips.

"Would you like to open another?" she asked.

"Hell yeah."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Notes/Warning:** Almost there, ladies and gentlemen! Internet issues are currently eating into my writing time. But I made it! Hope you enjoy!

**John's POV - Chapter 6**

He was on his own with Victor because Dean was – once again – not where he was supposed to be.

John watched as Victor used a key to let himself into the back door of the home. He assumed Victor would lock the door behind himself at that point, so getting into the house without tipping off Victor or causing a disturbance that would prompt someone to call the real cops would be tricky.

He decided to not rush in. Instead he hastened back to the car to get his duffle. He'd probably need something to get into the house or to deal with Victor, so better to be prepared.

Popping the trunk, he pulled out the gun he had hidden in the waistband of his jeans to check bullets. He was dealing with a human. No need for salt or silver. The standard issue would do just fine. Then he pulled out the already prepared duffle. Slamming the trunk shut, he hurried back to the house to search for another possible point of entry, hoping he could also look into windows to see what was going on inside.

He knew Victor was going to need time to position himself somewhere in the home to be discovered by the sitter. John also knew Victor was not going to attack right away, since the idea was to first pass as an innocuous statue. John had no idea why Victor would think a clown statue in any home would be considered innocuous in the first place. Still, the idea was to first slip by undetected in plain sight, making sure the sitter was comfortable with the "statue" once he'd been detected. He would want them to continue with whatever they were doing, letting their guard down, before he would strike.

A 5-minute wait while he searched for a way in would be long enough to give Victor time to get into place, John thought. He didn't want to risk the life of the girl who was unknowingly going to be Victor's next victim.

John watched the neighboring homes and looked for any place where someone might detect his presence on the property. It was early evening still, but dark enough to move about without easily drawing attention.

John tested windows and a basement door to see if he could slip in. He got lucky. There was a window open that led into the kitchen. The light was off, so the girl was most likely not doing anything in that room right now.

Looking around once more, John pushed the window open as far as it would go. There was a screen in place, so he had no choice but to dig out the cutters he always brought along for potential break-ins like this.

He cut away the screen and removed it, leaving it outside the house, and quietly slipped the duffle in first, then hauled himself up and into the window. The window was positioned over the kitchen sink, so he had to move the faucet without accidentally turning it on.

He stepped carefully onto the floor of the kitchen, then closed the window, hoping –should she come back in – that the girl wouldn't notice the missing screen outside the window. He pushed the duffle to the side of the sink so it would not be easily seen by anyone else. Then he reached into his waistband and retrieved his gun.

Stealing through the kitchen, John flattened against the wall and quickly peeked through the door. It was a dining room. The lights were also off in the room, so he snuck through continuing to search the house while listening for the girl and for Victor.

From the dining room, John could see there was a small entryway and another room on the other side of the house where the lights were on, but he couldn't hear any movement. The well-lit stairs in the entry area were against a wall. There was also a small area on the side of the stairs where he could duck for cover while he decided where to go next. He wanted to check out any other rooms that were downstairs, but how to do it unnoticed was the question.

Suddenly detecting the girl's faint footsteps above, he spotted a closet door behind him and decided to take cover there as he heard her coming. He strained his ears to hear and picked up on the sound of something opening and closing upstairs. Maybe he could dash over to the other room?

He looked up the stairs, checking for signs of the girl, or shadows of some sort. Seeing nothing, he started to move to the bottom of the stairs, using the wall as cover to peek into the next room. He could see some furniture, but from where he was standing, he couldn't see all the way into the room. He'd have to step out to take a better look. As John weighed his options, he heard more movement from upstairs, this time accompanied by a girl's voice. It sounded as if she was on the phone and getting closer to the stairs. John hustled back to the closet, being careful of any squeaky floorboards that could betray him.

He slipped in and pulled the door almost closed, just in time to see the girl coming down the stairs and heading into the adjacent room. She was a red head. Long straight hair brushed her back as she moved. Her thin frame and delicate features made John think she would not present much of a challenge at all when Victor finally pounced. And he could very well do just that when she entered that room. John hated not knowing for sure what she was walking in to.

"Yeah, I'm on my house sitting job right now. – Nope, just gonna go hang out and watch a movie, why? – What? No, Richie, you cannot come over here. – You know why! This is my job, Rich. I have to take care of the place." John could hear the girl laughing, "Yeah, ok, I'll take care of you when I see you tomorrow. – No, Richie, not here…"

John listened as the girl's voice moved further away. He snuck out again to take cover behind the wall. He could hear her talking. Sounded like she had moved into another room even further away, so he used the opportunity to sneak up the carpeted stairs and began checking inside the rooms. He was grateful that this family went for wall-to-wall throughout the rooms and in the hall upstairs. Made it easier to be quiet as he moved stealthily from room to room, looking for Victor in his damned clown costume. The lights were off in all the rooms. John surmised that the girl must not have been planning to go to bed anytime soon.

Slipping into the first room, John looked into corners and closets. Upon seeing nothing, he moved on to the next room. He moved methodically through the upstairs rooms, listening for the girl's voice possibly ascending the stairs each time he switched to the next room. In the bathroom, he saw the shower curtain was drawn and he stopped in his tracks. Steadying himself, he walked carefully to the tub, looking for any signs that someone was hiding there. He tilted his head to detect any sound of breathing, but there was just the faint sound of cars driving by outside. He inched his fingers along the curtain, gripping it carefully, before yanking it back to reveal – nothing.

John relaxed his gun and prepared to sneak back out of the bathroom when he heard a scream from downstairs. It was the girl.

Tossing aside all desire to be covert, John gripped his gun tighter and raced down the stairs in the direction of the scream. He could hear her gasping and the sounds of a struggle as he finally rounded the wall into the room he had been trying to get into earlier. That room was empty of activity, but ahead of him were wooden sliding doors. They were partly closed, but the commotion was clearly taking place behind them.

Rushing to the doors, he flung them open to see the girl on the floor, Victor on top of her, trying to strangle the life from her. John knew he had to be quick before the clown had time to snap her neck.

"Victor!" he yelled, cocking and aiming his gun inches away from the serial killer's face. He was hoping not to have to shoot since the monster they had been looking for was not a ghostly legend after all, but only Victor in a creepy clown costume.

"Get off her, Victor, or I will shoot!"

John heard the girl collapse to the floor. She was still breathing, but not moving just yet. Victor rose up and slowly turned around to face John. He cocked his head as he studied John. The makeup distorting his face into a perpetual smile seemed more creepy than ever. No wonder Sammy hated clowns.

"Victor isn't here right now. Maybe I can help you?" The clown stepped closer to John, who instinctively backed up to keep a safe distance between them.

"Victor, I know it's you."

"No, no, no. I'm afraid Victor is otherwise occupied."

"OK, if you're not Victor, then who are you?"

The clown smiled and stood still, placing his hands behind his back as he rocked on his heels in pretend thought. "Hmmm. Who am I? Who am I, you ask?"

"I thought I was pretty clear. Who are you?"

The clown's hands fell to his side as he sneered at John.

"I'm Victor's protector. Vince."

"Well then, Vince, what are you doing here? To that girl?"

Victor looked back at her and pointed. "Oh, you mean her? We were just playing! I wanted to surprise her. But…tsk tsk tsk…it seems she couldn't take a joke. Started screaming!" Victor waved his hands in mock surprise.

"I couldn't risk her telling anyone about us, now could I? Victor and me? So…" the clown shrugged. "…she had to go."

"No, Victor, I don't think she is the one who has to go."

The clown stepped forward again, edging John closer to the wall, which he really didn't like at all. "It's Vince and whatever do you mean?" The clown pointed grandly to himself. "You don't mean me, do you? Noooo. That wouldn't work at all!"

"And why not," John asked loudly, hoping the girl would revive enough to get up and call the police while he had Victor's attention. This would be so much easier if Dean had remained on his post. Where was that damn son of his?

"Victor needs me. I protected him all those years ago when those clowns accosted him in that house. It really did a number on his mind. He was so messed up. I had to come out for him, to be there to protect him from his own worst nightmares."

John realized at this point that the medical building he had followed Victor to the other day had listed the names of a number of psychiatrists as residents. Victor must have been seeing one of them. That meant that Victor was aware of his problem, so what had gone wrong? John wondered if maybe he was off any medication he should have been taking.

"Vince, you did a great job protecting Victor that night on Halloween," John said softly, trying to lull the clown into a false sense of security. The clown nodded happily. "I did good, didn't I?"

"Yes, but this is different. The girl poses no threat and I can't let you hurt her. I'm sorry. But if you just step away from her –"

"No!" Vince yelled, pounding his fists like a petulant toddler on the multi-colored pants covering his thighs. It would have seemed comical were it not for the dire circumstances. "She is mine! I must take care of Victor! I must get rid of her!"

John saw the girl slowly starting to re-awaken behind the clown's back and he stepped further back to draw Victor closer to him.

"I can't let you do that, Victor."

"And who's going to stop me? You?"

"Me," John replied.

Victor stopped to smile at John. One of those damned creepy clown smiles. Yeah, he thought, he and Sam were definitely on the same page when it came to despising clowns.

"Don't make me do this, Victor."

"My name. is. Vince!" At that, Victor lunged at John, who had no choice but to shoot. The bullet caught Victor in the shoulder, forcing him down to the ground. John rushed over to him to deliver one sharp punch, knocking him out cold for the moment.

He stepped back, shaking his hurt fist. He saw some of the damn makeup on his knuckles.

"Damn, that's going to be a bitch to get off me," he cursed.

John stepped over Victor to lift the girl off the floor. She was still woozy and it didn't register that someone was carrying her. John laid her on the sofa, then rushed back to his duffle to gets cuffs and rope to secure Victor. After tying him down, John called the police from the girl's phone, which had hit the floor in the struggle. He guessed she was either done with her last call, or it got disconnected. He couldn't chance that it was just disconnected and maybe police were already on their way.

So he called them himself, gave the address of the home and let them know the serial killer was shot but still alive, restrained and in need of medical attention. His civil duty done, John grabbed his duffle and hightailed it out the door, checking for possible police presence already. Seeing none, John rushed down the walkway and back to his car, just in time to hear the sirens already on their way. "Reno's finest to the rescue…if you're in the right neighborhood," John muttered to himself.

He watched as the cop cars pulled into the driveway of the home and in front of it, before he started up the Impala, making a U-turn and heading back to his house – and, most likely, to Dean.

(~~~)

It felt like it took John forever to get back to the house. He pondered all that could have been going on with Dean to cause him to ditch his post. With every thought, John only got angrier. He couldn't imagine a good answer to the question of where Dean was right now.

Pulling up to the house he knew one thing – Dean was home.

Quickly parking the Impala, he stormed up the stairs and into the house. He couldn't miss the sounds of a woman's laughter coming from Dean's room. He walked up close and listened. He heard the female voice, then Dean's before rearing back to kick open the door.

"Dean!" John was mad. Huffing mad. So mad he was sure his eyes must surely be flickering given the startled looks on Dean's and the girl's face.

"Dad!"

John only paused a moment at the door to take in the scene. He had caught Dean beneath some young woman in mid-moan. Her back was to John as she sat astride his son. There was a flash of her firm thigh. The snatch of sheets as she covered herself revealed Dean's own nakedness under the thin covers. The young blonde recoiled quickly drawing the sheet up to her chin, looking over at Dean, then John. She was a beauty, John noticed. Slightly different from what Dean usually chased after. There was an air of confidence that surrounded her. She wasn't embarrassed so much as caught off guard.

"You the one distracting my boy?" John asked, taking a step forward.

"Dad! Stop!" Dean yelled as he sat up, any shame falling away as moved to kneel between John and Belinda, shielding her from John's wrath.

"Please, Dad. It's not her fault," Dean continued. John stared at Belinda, then back at Dean. "Boy…," he started, looking back at the girl under the sheet. She stared at John with curiosity.

"It's time for you to leave, young lady," he commands.

"Dean needs me right now," she said, clearly not intimidated by the older man.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. He needs me. Can't you see that?" Belinda put her hand on Dean's shoulder as she stepped from the bed, the sheet falling away and revealing a well-toned body.

John tried to keep his eyes on her face and remain in control of the situation. "Listen, young lady, I don't know who you think you are –"

"I'm his friend."

"You barely know him."

"I know enough. I know he's hurting and he's lonely and that he doesn't even know it himself."

Dean looked over at Belinda, but said nothing as he looked back at John.

"But you know, don't you," Belinda charged.

John clenched his fists, unsure what to make of the naked woman standing before him. He came prepared to finally confront Dean and the last thing he needed was a fight on his hands with some temporary fling.

"See, I felt the pain coming off Dean when I first met him and it drew me to him. I wanted to help him. I needed to."

"Look, whoever you are –"

"Belinda."

"-you are not needed here. I can handle my own son."

"Can you? Where have you been, John?"

"Excuse me? Look –"

"No, John, I won't let you avoid this."

"Hey," Dean interrupted.

Belinda and John faced off as Dean rose from the bed, dragging the sheet from the bed to wrap around his waist. He stood between them awkwardly. "You know how I love it when people fight over me," Dean chuckled. "But this…this, uh, is just weird."

Belinda stood boldly now as John continued to glare at the brazen woman.

She reached one arm back around Dean, her eyes never leaving John. Then she raised her other to pull Dean into an embrace, stroking his hair as she whispered into his ear, "It's alright, my love. You do what you need to do."

"Um," Dean cleared him throat as he lightly hugged Belinda in return. "I'm sorry," he told her. "I should have known better." Dean then stepped back, facing his dad.

John narrowed his eyes, his fingers splaying. "You're apologizing to her? I think you're a little confused, Dean," John said patiently. He was gathering his senses, focusing them on his next move. He had given Dean all the time and all the room in the world and Dean had repeatedly thrown it back in his face. He had given more than enough warnings as well, but Dean had seemed unwilling to heed them.

Belinda reached for her clothes on the floor. As she stood, she glared at John before reaching over to Dean again, drawing his face to hers as she kissed him on the lips in full view of his father. Her arm protectively stretched across his chest, turning him toward her as she pressed her bare breasts against his chest.

As she stepped away, John was amazed to see a blush creeping onto Dean's cheeks. "I'll go get dressed and leave you two alone for now," she decided.

John could feel the heat coming off her as she walked past, but his gaze stayed on Dean, who was wordlessly begging him not to do anything to the girl.

John held his son's gaze. He couldn't allow himself to go after the girl right now. He needed Dean to understand that time was up. This could go down no other way.

Once the door had shut behind Belinda, John spoke. "Where did I tell you to be?" John growled, edging closer to Dean. His right hand carefully reached for his belt buckle.

"At the house of the next possible victim. I know." Dean stepped back as he spoke.

"And when, Dean? When did I ask you to be there?" John raised his left hand to start pulling the belt from its loops.

"Um," Dean swallowed. He glanced briefly behind him, realizing the wall was quickly coming up behind.

"Dean!"

"I hear you! You told me to stand watch for as long as it took, to wait for you, but I…" Dean took a bracing breath, closing his eyes but a moment. When he opened them, John could see the resignation on his face.

"I didn't listen. I mean, I did, but I just…I was somewhere else."

"Yeah! Here! With that girl who…what? Gave you the best sex of your life?! What could she possibly have between her legs to make you lose your mind, boy? You were supposed to back me up!"

"I know," Dean replied quietly, looking at the floor.

"You were supposed to be where I told you when I told you for a reason, Dean!"

"I…I…I know," Dean replied, still refusing to look up.

"Do you know?" John couldn't stop himself now. He grabbed Dean's upper arms, pulling him toward himself, unable to let the disrespect and disobeying of orders go unpunished any longer.

"Dad! Yes! I know! I'm sorry!"

John gripped his son's flesh, his anger transferring to his tightened grip. Dean winced, trying to find relief under his father's vice-like hold.

"You know. You keep saying you know, but if you knew, we wouldn't be here right now with me having to whip sense into my 24-year-old son!"

"I'm sorry, Dad. It was stupid to bring her here. I wasn't thinking," Dean whispered, averting his eyes once again. "I don't know what I was thinking. I swear."

"Hell no, you weren't thinking! At least not with the head that holds that brain of yours!" John roughly released the chastised boy and took one large step back. He breathed out.

"Assume the position."

John saw the boy pale at the command, green eyes wide with disbelief.

"Dad…"

"Don't make me say it twice, Dean."

"Dad, please, I know I have this coming. You warned me. I heard, but I didn't…  
>Just…can we just…not? Please?"<p>

John gave Dean one more chance, choosing not to reply instead of repeating himself. He knew he had been more than patient and tolerant of whatever this funk was his son was in. He knew he was angry, but not so angry that he couldn't carry out this discipline with the controlled hand needed in order for Dean to get the message.

"Can I at least get dressed first? I mean, you know, wear somethin—"

"No!"

Dean jumped at the word, stopping his pleas to yield to the task at hand.

Dean nodded and John could see his son turning a slight crimson again. He could only assume he was embarrassed, but it was not enough to stop John's hand. He narrowed his eyes at Dean once again.

"Right," Dean acquiesced, rubbing his neck. "I'm doing it." He slowly looked around the room.

"Any time today, Dean."

"Dad," Dean tried one more time. "Really, at least boxers…"

John snorted. "I'm not sure you could have set it up more perfectly, Dean, even if you'd tried" he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "Somewhere in the back of your mind, maybe you knew this was coming and you got ready for it. Now do I need to start adding on to the licks I've already got planned for you?"

"No. No, sir." Dean shut his eyes, tugging at the sheet around his waist. He looked again around the small room and back at John, refusing to look him in the eye now. "Um, where…?"

John noticed then that his usual preferences, a chair or even a table that Dean could lean over, weren't available in the tiny bedroom. He was not going to break the moment by relocating them to another room, so he decided to improvise.

"You can hold on to the footboard," he decided.

Dean could only glance at his father from under his long lashes. Nodding again, he slowly complied. He moved to the foot of the bed and clutched the wooden rail of the footboard, the sheet finally falling completely as Dean leaned forward to hold the rail. He took a couple of steps back, slightly spreading his legs like he was about to be arrested. Surely he would have preferred that right now.

John watched his son's bent back, waiting while he gripped the footboard with both hands, head bowed in submission.

"How many?" Dean asked.

"I'll decide as I go," John snapped.

Dean nodded and John could see the apprehension in his boy's posture while he awaited the first strike.

John shook his head. It didn't have to be this way.

The first powerful blow to Dean's bare ass caused Dean's knees to buckle slightly. John heard him hiss as he repositioned himself, feet apart, one hand now gripping the rail. The other hand planted itself on the mattress, bowing Dean even further but giving him some sort of relief too.

John only waited for him to still again, then reared his arm back to bring another angry lash onto Dean's right butt cheek, quickly followed by one to his thighs, causing him to buckle yet again. But Dean only exhaled loudly, finding his formation yet again. The sheet of the bed gathered in his clenched fist.

Not wanting to drag things out, John doled out three more strikes, first forehand, then back, then fore again, each landing on Dean's left cheek, then right, then left again. Dean leaned forward now to brace himself on his elbows, his head buried between them and shaking slightly. John didn't have the heart to tell the quiet boy to resume the original position. He knew he was far from done. Six licks in and Dean was already close to breaking. John inhaled and blocked the thought from his mind.

Three more strikes turned Dean's behind a scarlet color, and John only hesitated a moment before laying two more to his thighs. Dean buckled more now, taking longer to straighten, and John giving him less time to do so.

With focus, John swung, the belt landing from Dean's lower back to mid-thigh, licks concentrating to the left of his ass and to the right. John could see Dean struggling to breathe with each lash and John was determined now to break him. Not to force Dean's will into compliance with his own so much as to loosen his tongue and rip away whatever it was that had put this rift between them.

John very much intended to give Dean at least 24 lashes with that belt, but he was only at 15, and Dean was taking longer to stand back up, shaking between his arms. John was sure he could hear the sounds of muffled sniffles on the bed.

"Almost there, Dean. We have to get this out." John knew Dean could barely stand now, and even though he knew his son might resent him for it, he decided to give him the only break he could as he remembers a bag in the back room.

"Don't move," he warned Dean, heading back to the door. Dean turned his head away, wiping his eyes across his arm as he did so. He stiffly nodded but stayed prostrate at the foot of the bed. John knew he has his son's full attention now and he was going to finish this, once and for all.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Notes/Warning:** Despite my stupid intermittent Internet, we have arrived at the end ON TIME. (Take that, Frontier Communications, with your poor Internet service. No love lost here.) I can't thank you all enough for indulging my exploration into a longer fic and posting once a day - except on weekends. It was an awesome experience and one I will not repeat soon. lol! Gotta rest now. Got a one-shot on the list that I need to muster up some energy to do next month some time, so I must chill a bit. I hope you enjoy and don't hate me too much for wearing out poor Dean. Just know I love him best of all so...there's that.

**John and Dean's POV - Chapter 6.5**

Dad had caught him with Belinda, riding him nonetheless, Dean remembered, head between his arms, as he waited for his father to return. He knew he couldn't move. He knew he had to make things right by taking his punishment like a man. OK, his dad was spanking him like a kid, but Dean knew he deserved it.

Dean couldn't help but chide himself now for making it so easy for his father to carry out his punishment. The humiliation sent waves of heat across his body as they chased the chills from the air. He had brought Belinda to their home, which he knew never to do – at least not while John was actually in town and liable to come back at any time. What the hell was his deal, anyway?

After a few minutes away, John returned with the final implement in hand to finish the difficult punishment. He wasted no time stepping around Dean's feet to put his left hand on the small of his back. "Move up, son. We're almost through this."

Dean slowly pushed himself up on his elbows to move higher onto the bed, only slightly glancing back to see what his father had in mind. He groaned after he spotted the dreaded paddle John had held on to all the years while Sam and Dean were growing up. John had often used his hand and the paddle when they were younger, changing to a belt or switch as they got old enough to stand the sting of their lashes.

The paddle made Dean feel as childish as he could possibly feel, save for John actually hauling him over his lap at this point, and thank God for small favors. Dean would surely fight Dad if he did try to bend him over his knee. Sure he'd likely lose, but he'd muster whatever energy he had right now to not be completely emasculated by his father.

John pressed down on Dean's back with a firm hand. "Nine more, son. That's all. And I hope you appreciate me letting you lie on this bed instead of forcing you to continue standing."

Dean stayed silent. Instead, he gave in to the helpless feeling growing inside him and covered his head with his hands because now he just wanted to hide. His hands quickly fell back to the bed, though, fisting the covers as the nine punishing smacks landed squarely on his butt in burning succession. He bit his lip for the first few, then huffed out for the last, squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself to be somewhere else while his entire butt was being lit up with the unforgiving wooden device. His father was clearly determined to drive home his point and with each swing he punctuated his disappointment in Dean. There would be no relief until John was done.

Dean knew he had done well to keep his sobs relatively under control, though he wasn't exactly positive he hadn't cried out at some point. The physical pain was only topped by the humiliation of being bent over the footboard, plus – and he hoped he was wrong – the possibility that Belinda had heard even a little of what was happening to him. He felt the shame well up inside him all over again. But he didn't bawl. Streaming tears and rapid breaths were all that truly betrayed that anything had happened to him at all.

When he heard his dad tell him he was done, Dean rose slowly, bracing on his arms at first as he panted, then shifted to the side of the bed. He tried to move as deftly as he could to keep his back to his father, humiliated enough to have taken this whipping completely nude. The last thing he wanted was to expose himself too. Dean honestly did not believe his dad would go through with his threats, given his age. It had been a long time since his dad last took belt or paddle to him. While clearly he was never too old, it had been difficult for him to willingly lie prone and allow the shower of pain to rain on him without even trying to shield himself.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he finally murmured, head down in concentration as he shifted the sheet from under him to pull over his lap. He carefully tightened it around himself and hissed as he tried to find a comfortable way to perch on the bed.

"I let you down and disobeyed your orders too many times. I know it. I didn't mean to. I really didn't. I wasn't thinking straight and I know you had no other choice." He braced his arms on the edge of the bed, slightly pushing up to grant his blistered ass some semblance of relief.

"Why don't you get dressed, son, then come talk to me, ok?"

"Yeah." He hissed again. "Yeah ok."

(~~~)

After John left the room, he closed the door behind him to give his boy some time to be alone and collect himself. He had, for all intents and purposes, stripped Dean in every possible way and now he had to let him start to reclaim some of his dignity.

John ran both hands through his hair as he walked away from the bedroom door. Now that he had reminded Dean that he was never too old to feel the snap of his belt on his bare ass, he had another complication to deal with – the girl.

Dean needs me, she had said. He was hurting, lonely and he didn't even know it himself, she had thrown at him. John knew his son well enough to know something was wrong. He didn't need his son's lay to tell him anything, but had Dean really shared so much with this girl? It wasn't like him at al to do something like that and she was…off. He thought maybe he'd have to find her.

John walked to the front door to step outside for some fresh air and to think more about the girl while he waited for Dean. Swinging open the door, he was startled to find Belinda sitting on the steps, her arms wrapped around her knees like a little girl.

She looked up accusingly as she heard the door open and she stood to face John.

John stepped out on the porch, ready to snatch up the girl.

"What are you?" he demanded.

"I don't know what you mean," Belinda replied nonchalantly.

"Yes, you do." John insisted, glancing behind him to see if Dean had come out of the room yet. It usually took Dean a little time to compose himself to meet John after being disciplined like that.

John moved to close the door.

"Dean is a horny kid. I know that. You are beautiful. That's obvious. So your beguiling ways were clearly irresistible. But he's not stupid. He says he doesn't know what he was thinking and seeing you? Here and now? I'm inclined to believe that."

"If you believe it, then why did you just embarrass and spank him like a disobedient child?"

"He was a disobedient child, Belinda. My child, by the way. To correct as I see fit."

"Your child is a man now. He needs you to listen to him, not punish him."

"I can't listen if he doesn't speak."

"He won't speak if he thinks you'll chastise him for anything he says that's contrary to your commands."

John looked at the bold vixen. She straightened under his gaze, almost daring him to continue challenging her.

"He told you all this?"

"Not with his lips."

John's brow creased in annoyance and he took another step forward noticing that Belinda held her position.

"I ask you again. What are you?"

Belinda tilted her head, as if she was listening. Closing her eyes, she followed the inaudible sound. A smile slowly broadened on her face and she nodded as if she accepted whatever she was hearing. "You're a hunter," she stated in some kind of moment of realization, eyes wide with new understanding.

John stopped now, considering whether to seize her or not.

"I'm a nymph – with a few other abilities. Don't bother trying to kill me. I haven't done anything wrong. I did not hurt your son."

"No? Maybe you cast some kind of spell that has him disobeying my orders and endangering everyone, including himself?"

Belinda stepped off the last step to the ground. "I might have woven a little magic here and there, but only to make Dean happy. Like I said, I didn't hurt him."

"No good comes from mind control."

"Not mind control. Just…a little inner peace for a little while." She clasped her hands in front of her. "Look, I like Dean." She twirled a lock of hair on one finger and looked up at John flirtatiously. "Your son is a virile man, John."

John braced himself so as not to jump on the manipulative thing before him. "Don't talk to me about my son in that way."  
>Belinda raised her hands in mock contrition. "Sor-ree, John. Don't mean to offend your delicate sensibilities." She smiled a few moments and the smile began to fade as she lowered her hands.<p>

"I won't pretend I'm in love with him or need him or anything. But I do care about what happens to him, whether you believe that or not. I can read him. For someone like me, he's an open book, a long, sad tale of love, loss, loneliness and a need to please stubborn ole you that's so strong he'd keep a therapist in luxury cars for years with him as their only client."

John took a single step down. "You use any kind of power on my son, I should kill you on principle alone."

"Really, John? Because your principles are based on killing evil, correct? I am not evil. I come from nature. You know, John. Nature? As in natural, not supernatural? There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, John Winchester. I know who and what you are, so you should know I don't die easily. Just accept what I am telling you and we'll part as friends."

"And what are you telling me?"

"Your son is in pain because of your other son."

John lifted his chin, suddenly enveloped by his own thoughts.

Belinda nodded at John. "I'll take that as you heard me and I'll be on my way then. Please don't try to track me down. I tend to move with the wind." She chuckled. "Quite literally sometimes."

Belinda winked and smiled at John once more. He watched her as she twirled away from him, walking in the night as if she had nowhere to be. He watched her until like that – she was no more.

Sighing, John decided to just let her be a memory for Dean and keep this secret to himself about what exactly she was. For now, he would live and let live; only for now. He didn't know very much about nymphs beyond their mythical relevance. He'd had no idea they were even real. And if they were, then what else? He'd need to research it. But for now, he needed to go inside to Dean.

Stepping into the house, John saw Dean finally emerge from his room.

John stood at the door, shutting it fully behind him, as he fell to lean back on it.

"How you doing?"

Dean nodded uncertainly. "I'm fine." He took one step forward, feeling the abrasive touch of his jeans against his still raw butt. He blanched at the sensation. "Or I will be."

John pushed off the door to find a seat on the arm of the sofa. "I get that. I'm sorry it had to come to that. I really am."

"I know, Dad. It's ok."

"No, no it's not. Or at least you're not. Dean, what's been going on with you? I need to know, son."

Dean stepped forward again until he reached the wall that separated the kitchen from the front part of the house. Leaning against it, he took a deep breath.

"I haven't talked to Sam."

John reared up at the mention of Sam's name, recalling what Belinda had just said. "For how long?"

"Almost a couple of months now."

"That's not so long –"

"Dad, it's the longest we've ever gone without speaking."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

John crossed his arms as he thought.

"What do you suppose is going on?"

"I don't have to suppose. I know. I went to see him."

Realization dawned on John. "When you disappeared after going to the clown museum."

"Yeah. I was going to confront him, but I followed him instead and I heard him talking. Said he thought we just needed space, or well, that's pretty much what he said."

John released a heavy breath. "Dean, maybe your brother really does just need space."

Dean laughed incredulously. "That's pretty funny coming from you, Dad! You didn't want to let him go in the first place, remember?"

"Oh I remember, alright. I remember how stubborn and determined he was and I'm sure still is. He won't let us take care of him Dean, no matter how much I hate it and how much it pisses me off or you. So…we let him go."

Dean held his arms, rubbing them as he considered what John had said. "I can't do that. Not completely. Hell, Dad, you're the one who told me to look after him. You drilled it into my head. I can let him live his life, but I can't just let him go, just like that. You can't ask me to do that."

John didn't know how to respond. He had been the one to reinforce time and time again that Dean was to watch out for his little brother. He just needed to protect his baby as much as possible as he found out more and more about his destiny. But Dean didn't know about that. All he knew was he was the oldest, gotta take care of his little brother. He faulted himself for not showing Dean the value in taking care of himself as well.

"My head was all messed up, Dad. I was mad at Sam, but going to see him just made it worse. Belinda?" Dean closed his eyes, picturing he in his head one more time. "She was awesome, Dad. She just helped me forget about it for awhile. That's all."

"I get it, Dean. But you can't just disappear on me when I am counting on you. When lives are counting on you. You have a problem like that, you come talk to me."

"Dad, it's not that easy, ok? It's just not. I feel like I'm disappointing you—"

"I'm disappointed when you don't do the job the way I know you can. I'm disappointed when I'm counting on you and you don't show. Needing to hear from your brother? That I get."

John chuckled and smiled a wistful smile. "Needing to be with a pretty girl for a little while? That I get too."

Dean looked confused at his dad, not sure if he was thinking about his mom or someone else. That thought just made him disgusted.

John's smile was quickly replaced with a stern look. "But Dean there were people we were protecting. Evil doesn't wait until you've worked out your personal issues."

"Yeah, I know it. It won't happen again. I can promise you that, Dad."

"Good to hear it. I'm gonna hold you to it because you know what will happen otherwise."

Dean closed his eyes, shaking his head mournfully. "Ahh Dad. Don't remind me. Too soon, too soon."

"Fair enough."

John rose from the sofa arm, gesturing toward the door.

"Whaddaya say we go take a peek in on Sammy then? Both of us. Just to be sure he's safe before we move on?"

Dean looked reluctant.

"He won't even know we're there," John added.

Dean brightened then at the suggestion. "OK, that would be good, Dad." Dean scratched the back of his neck. "You know, maybe while we're going, we can think about a second car?"

John smiled and good-naturedly clapped Dean on the cheek. "It is getting mighty tiring having to chauffeur your ass everywhere."

"Hey! I only ride with you to keep you company! I could snag my own ride any time."

"I'm sure you could, but maybe we'll do the next one the legal way, huh?"

"Yeah, I suppose that would be better."

Dean stuffed his hands on his pockets. "So, um, who gets the other car?"

"Who do you think should get it?" John grinned at him.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know. I mean, if you want something new, I don't mind taking her off your hands," he said shyly, pointing an elbow out the door, in reference to Baby.

John smiled, thinking of the car that had seen him through most of the best and worst times of his life, with the ones he loved safely inside - until they weren't anymore.

"I suppose something could be arranged."


End file.
